TOJBf 

ir    .•'•!• 


• 
* 


* 


SUPPLEMENT  TO  THE  PLAYS 


WILLIAM    SHAKSPEARE: 


COMPRISING 


THE  SEVEN  DRAMAS 


WHICH  HAVE  BEEN  ASCRIBED  TO  HIS  PEN,  BUT  WHICH  ARE  NOT  INCLUDED 
WITH  HIS  WRITINGS  IN  MODERN  EDITIONS,  NAMELY: 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN, 
THE  LONDON  PEODIGAL, 
THOMAS  LORD  CROMWELL, 
SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE, 


THE  PURITAN,  OR  THE  WIDOW 

OF  WATLING  STREET, 
THE  YORKSHIRE  TRAGEDY, 
THE  TRAGEDY  OF  LOCRINE. 


EDITED, 


fify  Mote,  anfr  an  I ntrototian  to  mt[j 

BY  WILLIAM  GILMORE  SIMMS,  ESQ. 


AUBURN  AND  ROCHESTER : 
ALDEN    AND    BEARDSLEY. 

NEW  YORK : 

J.  C.  DERBY,  119  NASSAU  STREET. 
1855. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1848, 

BY  GEORGE  F.  COOLEDGE  &  BROTHER, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


TO  THE 


REV.  ALEXANDER  DYCE, 

(0)1?  HE?®  Ei  A  £7  ]3>s 

• 
The  acute  and  laborious  worker  in  the  old,  but  still  ample  and  green, 

fields  of  British  Dramatic  Literature,  this  humble  labor,  a  FIRST 
American  edition  of  the  imputed  Plays  of  SHAKSPEARE,  is 

I)  cnj    Ucspcctfullg    3nsrribu&, 

BY  THE  EDITOR. 

WOODLANDS,  SOUTH  CAROLINA, 
January  20,  1848. 


2040633 


GENERAL    INTRODUCTION. 


IN  undertaking  to  supply  the  American  reader  with  an  edition  of  the  plays  which  have 
been  ascribed  to  Shakspeare,  but  which  are  not  usually  included  among  his  writings,  the 
publishers  do  not,  by  any  means,  propose  to  decide  upon  their  authenticity.  They  prefer  to 
leave  this  question,  as  they  find  it,  to  future  criticism  and  the  sagacity  of  the  reader.  It  is 
enough  for  them  that  the  question  of  authorship  is  still  under  discussion,  and  may  long  re- 
main so  —  that  some  of  the  best  critics  of  the  age  that  is  passing  incline  to  the  belief  that 
several,  if  not  all,  of  these  imputed  productions,  however  inferior  to  the  generally-received 
performances  of  Shakspeare,  are  nevertheless  from  his  pen  —  and,  that  the  weight  of  exter- 
nal testimony  clearly  corresponds  with  this  opinion.  For  this  matter,  the  reader  will  see 
the  separate  prefaces  to  the  several  plays,  as  they  occur  in  this  edition,  where  an  endeavor 
has  been  made  to  bring  together,  for  the  purpose  of  facilitating  the  popular  judgment,  all 
the  known  facts  in  the  history  of  their  production  and  publication  in  past  periods.  The 
object  of  the  present  publishers  is  to  afford  to  the  general  reader  an  opportunity,  if  not  of 
deciding  for  himself  upon  the  genuineness  of  these  plays,  at  least  of  becoming  familiar  with 
their  merits.  Such  a  purpose,  indeed,  appears  to  belong  particularly  to  the  duties  of  a  pub- 
lisher, who,  though  his  aim  be  gain,  is  yet  required  to  regulate  his  selfish  desires  by  a  due 
and  equal  regard  to  the  claims  of  the  public,  and  the  writer  whose  works  he  brings  before 
them.  He  stands  in  a  relation  of  double  responsibility ;  and  it  seems  scarcely  proper  that 


4  GENERAL  INTRODUCTION. 

the  publisher  of  Shakspeare's  writings,  or  of  any  writings,  should  presume  to  settle  a  diffi- 
culty so  important  to  his  author,  by  excluding,  on  the  merest  conjectures  of  criticism,  a 
large  body  of  literature  which  has  been  confidently  ascribed  to  his  pen,  either  by  his  con- 
temporaries or  by  those  nearest  to  him  in  point  of  time  ;  —  and  this,  simply  because  of  their 
inferiority,  whether  obvious  or  only  supposed,  to  the  average  merits  of  his  received  perform- 
ances. They  do  not  see  that  they  enjoy  the  right,  in  the  case  of  any  author,  of  rejecting  tes- 
timony, however  inadequate  as  proof,  at  the  simple  instance  of  shrewd  but  conjectural  criti- 
cism ;  and  are  persuaded,  in  the  case  of  so  great  a  master,  that,  while  the  incorporation,  with 
his  recognised  productions,  of  the  plays  which  are  doubtful,  can  by  no  means  disparage  or 
impair  his  acknowledged  excellences,  their  exclusion,  while  any  doubt  exists,  is  an  abso- 
lute wrong  and  injustice  to  the  reader,  who  should  at  least  be  permitted  to  enter  into  a  sim- 
ilar inquiry'  with  his  critic,  and  to  decide  for  himself  upon  what  is  intrinsic  in  the  discussion. 
At  all  events,  he  should  be  permitted  to  believe  that  he  possesses  all  of  the  writings  of  his 
favorite,  though  this  conviction  be  coupled  with  the  misgiving  that  he  possesses  something 
more.  That  he  should  arrive  at  the  ordinary  opinion  —  the  justice  of  which  the  present 
publishers  do  not  propose  to  gainsay  —  that  these  doubtful  plays  are,  in  point  of  merit,  far 
below  those  which  usually  complete  the  body  of  Shakspeare's  writings,  will  not,  in  any 
respect,  lessen  the  propriety  —  assuming  it  as  possible  that  the  former  are  really  his  —  of 
bringing  the  two  classes  together.  They  may,  or  may  not,  form  a  part  of  the  same  great 
family  —  changelings,  perhaps  —  sons  of  premature  birth  —  of  inferior  stature  and  propor- 
tion—  "scarce  half  made  up,"  "and  sent  into  the  world  before  their  time;"  but  this  infe- 
riority, or  even  deformity,  should  constitute  no  sufficient  objection  to  the  scheme  of  uniting 
them  in  the  same  household.  There  shall  be  a  decrepit,  a  mute,  or  an  idiot,  in  a  noble 
family,  while  the  true  heir  shall  be  of  erect  and  symmetrical  figure,  with  all  attributes  per- 
fect and  superior ;  but  the  practice  would  be  pronounced  Scythian  and  barbarous,  which 
should  destroy  summarily,  or  banish  to  a  desert  cave  to  perish,  the  imperfect  or  inferior 
progeny,  because  of  its  unhappy  disparity  with  him  upon  whom  the  hopes  of  the  family  are 
placed.  The  case  finds  its  exact  parallel  in  these  instances  of  premature  birth  and  imperfect 
organization  in  the  literary  world  ;  and  there  is  an  equal  cruelty  and  impolicy  in  our  consign- 
ing to  oblivion  the  more  homely  or  feeble  production,  because  it  so  strikingly  contrasts 
with  that  which  we  have  learned  to  study  and  to  love.  This  very  contrast  has  its  uses, 
since  the  defects  of  the  one  more  strikingly  impress  us  with  the  beauties  of  the  other ;  and 
we  frame  our  own  standards  of  excellence  quite  as  frequently  from  the  contemplation  of  the 
humble  and  the  faulty,  as  of  the  perfect  and  the  high. 

In  the  recognition  of  this  opinion,  the  literary  student  has  a  leading  interest,  since  he  is 
naturally  curious  to  see  in  what  manner  his  predecessor  has  worked  —  from  what  small  be- 
ginnings, against  what  obstructions,  and  with  what  inferior  tools.  It  is  important,  indeed, 
that  he  should  see  where,  and  how  frequently,  the  great  master  has  faltered,  or  has  fallen, 
in  his  experiments.  The  very  inequalities  of  the  exemplar  commend  him  somewhat  more 
to  our  sympathies,  as  they  tend  to  bring  him  within  the  laws  of  a  humanity  which  is  noto- 
riously imperfect.  We  are  pleased  to  see  how  much  was  toil  and  trouble  —  how  much  was 
care  and  anxiety  —  how  much  was  industry  and  perseverance  —  how  much  was  in  mortal 
powers,  in  the  secret  of  his  successes;  —  to  discover  that  it  was  not  all  Genius  —  all  inspira- 
tion —  all  the  fruit  of  a  special  gift  of  Heaven,  to  a  chosen  individual,  which  no  follower 
may  hope  to  share.  We  are  pleased  to  see  how,  feebly,  step  by  step,  he  has  continued  to 
struggle,  onward  and  upward,  until,  from  awkwardness,  he  arrives  at  grace ;  from  weak- 
ness, he  has  grown  to  strength ;  from  a  crude  infancy,  he  has  risen  into  absolute  majesty 
and  manhood.  Those  inequalities  which  declare  the  transition  periods  in  the  progress  of 
the  mind,  and  show  the  natural  but  laborious  advance  of  the  thinking  faculties,  from  senti- 
ment to  idea,  and  from  idea  to  design  and  structure,  are  particularly  grateful  to  the  student, 
who,  delighting  in  the  excellences  of  a  favorite  author,  acquires  a  personal  and  familiar  in- 
terest in  him,  when  thus  permitted  to  follow  him  into  his  workshop  —  to  trace  his  gradual 


GENERAL  INTRODUCTION.  5 

progresses  —  the  slow  marches  of  his  intellect  through  its  several  stages  of  acquisition  and 
utterance,  infancy  preparing  the  way  for  childhood,  childhood  for  youth,  and  youth  for  man- 
hood, as  naturally  as  in  the  physical  world  ;  and  the  curiosity  which  requires  to  behold  the 
singular  processes  of  each  individual  self-training,  the  results  of  which  have  been  eminence 
and  fame,  is  the  fruit  of  a  just  ambition,  enlivened  by  instincts,  which  make  it  equally  profit- 
able and  pleasant  to  survey  the  modus  operandi  of  the  great  genius,  not  yet  fairly  conceiving 
the  peculiar  mission  which  follows  from  his  endowment,  yet  preparing,  step  by  step,  for 
the  consummation  of  its  objects.  It  is,  indeed,  by  the  faults  and  errors,  rather  than  by  the 
more  symmetrical  achievements  of  the  masters,  that  we  improve.  The  perfect  models, 
seen  by  themselves,  and  totally  uncoupled  with  those  qualifying  exuberances  and  failings, 
which  are  the  necessary  shadows  to  their  successes,  are  rather  more  likely  to  discourage 
us  by  their  manifest  superiority,  than  invite  by  their  examples.  The  difficulty  of  ihe  model 
might  impair  our  hope  to  excel  or  equal  it,  were  we  not  permitted  to  know  how  frequently 
its  author  has  failed,  and  how  many  abortive  efforts  have  fallen  from  his  hands,  before  he 
attained  the  degree  of  success  in  which  he  felt  that  his  art  could  go  no  farther.  We  are 
encouraged  when  the  laborious  artist  takes  us  into  his  studio,  and  reveals  to  us  the  painful 
difficulties  which  he  has  been  compelled  to  overcome  —  the  rudeness  of  his  own  first  con- 
ceptions and  designs  —  the  feeble  prurience  of  his  childish  fancies  —  the  unsymmetrical 
crudenesses  of  his  thought,  and  the  huge,  ungainly  fragments  that  lie  about  his  workshop, 
which  prove  the  pains,  the  labors,  and  frequent  miscarriages,  which  preceded  the  perfect 
birth.  This  study  of  the  artist  in  his  cell,  or  of  the  author  in  his  garret — the  familiarity 
thus  acquired  with  his  tools,  and  a  proper  idea  of  the  toils,  the  obstacles,  and  the  trials, 
which  his  patience,  courage,  study,  and  genius,  have  finally  overcome,  is,  indeed,  the  true 
field  of  research  for  all  those  who  would  follow  in  his  footsteps ;  —  discouraging  the  vain 
and  feeble,  humbling  the  presumptuous,  and  fully  unfolding,  to  the  resolute  and  endowed 
worker,  the  true  nature  of  that  destiny  for  which  he  was  chosen.  It  is  mere  dilettantism 
alone,  which  shrinks  from  such  a  development  —  preferring  only  the  knowledge  of  the  per- 
fect results  of  labor,  without  being  troubled  with  its  processes.  The  mind  of  the  true 
worker  is  best  seen  in  these  very  processes.  The  genuine  student  —  and  to  such  alone  is  it 
permitted  to  behold  and  to  appreciate  the  highest  objects  and  excellences  of  art  —  prefers 
this  survey,  in  connexion  with  the  final  results  attained,  simply  as  it  unveils  the  peculiar 
processes  of  an  individual  mind :  giving  birth  to  an  original  thought,  a  new  truth,  shaped 
by  imagination  into  a  form  which  the  world  finally  receives  as  a  model  and  a  law. 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  Shakspeare,  perhaps,  that  his  early  critics  and  commentators  — 
to  say  nothing  of  their  more  modern  and  recent  successors  —  have  not  been  willing  to  ac- 
knowledge these  considerations.  Regarding  their  idol,  most  properly,  as,  perhaps,  the  most 
various  wonder  that  mortal  genius  ever  displayed,  they  were  not  willing  that  he  should  be 
found  mortal  in  any  respect.  They  entertained  the  vulgar  notion  that,  in  order  to  enhance 
his  merits,  they  were  to  depreciate  his  advantages  —  overlooking  the  notorious  truth,  that 
all  successful  art,  no  matter  what  has  been  its  social  fosterings  or  privileges,  must  still  de- 
pend upon  self-education  —  a  training  of  the  inner  nature,  adapted  particularly  to  the  indi- 
vidual characteristics  of  the  man,  and  to  be  conceived  and  carried  on  wholly  by  one's  self. 
The  achievements  of  Shakspeare,  according  to  these  philosophers,  were  to  derive  their  value 
from  the  fact  that  his  genius  was  totally  unassisted  by  the  usual  school  acquisitions,  and  his 
successes  were  to  flow  to  him  in  spite  of  a  condition  of  social  life  more  than  commonly  un- 
friendly and  adverse.  He  was  to  be  wretchedly  poor  and  destitute  of  training,  and  it  was 
for  accident  alone,  or  a  call  of  Providence  rather,  to  prompt  his  mind  to  that  direction,  by 
which  it  was  to  effect  its  wondrous  performances.  Banished  from  his  native  hamlet,  as  a 
profligate  and  deer-stealer,  he  was  to  wander  off  to  London  as  a  link-boy,  and  the  merest 
appanage  of  a  theatre  ;  and,  all  of  a  sudden,  he  was  to  confound  the  world  with  the  wonders 
of  a  genius  to  which  his  domestic  fortunes  had  shown  themselves  hostile  to  the  last.  Most 
of  this  history  is  untrue,  and  much  of  it  is  absurd.  The  life  of  Shakspeare  is  gradually  to 


6  GENERAL  INTRODUCTION. 

bt  rewritten  The  earnest  activity  of  such  workers  as  Dyce,  Collier,  Knight,  and  t*ie  gen- 
tlemen connected  with  the  Shakspeare  Society,  in  England,  will  continue  to  make  discov- 
eries, such  as  they  have  already  made,  which  will  most  probably  lead  us  to  such  an  approxi- 
mation of  the  true,  in  Shakspeare's  career,  as,  at  least,  to  relieve  his  biography  of  the  gross 
exaggerations  and  errors  which  have  disfigured  it.  We  shall  probably  learn,  as  in  part  we  do 
already,  that  his  family  was  one  of  good  repute  and  condition,  though  somewhat  reduced  in 
fortune,  and  not  so  much  stinted  but  that  his  education  was  quite  as  good  as  could  be  afforded 
in  that  part  of  England  during  his  boyhood  —  that  he  was  not  only  somewhat  informed  in 
Greek  and  Latin,  as  Jonson,  indeed,  tells  us, —  though  the  wilful  biographers  of  Shakspeare 
have  perversely  construed  his  line  — 

"  And  though  them  hadst  small  Latin  and  less  Greek,"— 

into  the  possession  of  neither  —  but  that  he  was  probably,  in  some  degree  also,  acquainted 
with  the  French  and  Italian,  and  visited  the  continent,  at  some  early  period  ef  his  life  — 
making  a  personal  acquaintance  at  Venice  with  the  Rialto,  and  receiving  his  prompting  for 
that  most  perfect  of  all  love  stories,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  at  the  very  tomb  of  the  Capulets  in 
Verona.  It  is  also  highly  probable  that,  on  leaving  the  grammar-school  of  Stratford,  he 
passed  into  the  office  of  an  attorney,  and  picked  up  that  familiarity  with  legal  phrases,  which 
his  writings  betray  to  a  greater  extent  than  those  of  all  his  contemporary  dramatists  to- 
gether. Here,  it  is  probable  —  we  will  suppose  at  fifteen  or  sixteen  —  that  his  mind  re- 
ceived its  first  dramatic  direction.  Several  of  his  townsmen  seem  to  have  been  players  — 
several  of  those  who  afterward  appeared  in  his  pieces  —  the  famous  Burbage  among  them  ; 
and  Stratford  had  its  theatre  when  John  Shakspeare,  the  father  of  William,  was  bailiff  of 
the  town.  It  might  be  that  the  office  of  the  father  procured  for  the  son  some  peculiar  the- 
atrical privileges.  Here,  then,  at  this  period,  relieving  the  daily  toils  of  an  attorney's  office 
by  an  occasional  nocturnal  frolic  with  the  players,  at  the  expense  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's 
park  at  Charlecote,  he  most  probably  commenced  his  first  feeble  career  as  a  dramatic  author. 
To  suppose  that  he  wrote  any  of  the  plays  usually  ascribed  to  him,  at  this  early  period,  or, 
indeed,  at  any  period  of  his  life  before  his  twenty-fifth  year,  unless  Titus  Andronicus  and 
Pericles,*  is  almost  an  absurdity.  These  all  betray,  in  addition  to  the  manifest  possession 
of  the  highest  genius,  the  equal  maturity  of  experience  and  reflection,  —  the  fruits  of  con- 
templation—  a  knowledge  only  derivable  from  long  and  active  association  among  men  —  an 
art  made  confident  by  frequent  successes  —  a  taste  polished  and  refined  by  repeated  and  long 
exercise  —  an  imagination  invigorated  by  habitual  training  —  a  fancy  curbed  in  its  excesses 
by  attrition  with  rival  wits,  and  a  constant  familiarity  with  books  from  the  best  hands,  not 
to  dwell  upon  the  singular  knowledge  of  dramatic  situation  and  stage  effect,  which  his  more 
mature  pieces  exhibit  —  a  knowledge  which  could  only  arise,  as  in  the  case  of  Sheridan 
Knowles,  from  a  long  practice  in  theatricals.  These  possessions  are  not  gifts,  but  acquisi- 
tions. They  are  the  work  of  time  and  practice.  They  are  not  to  be  found  in  youth,  even  in 
the  case  of  the  highest  genius,  since  they  contemplate  human  standards  which  fluctuate  — 
arts  which  depend  upon  a  social  condition,  and  a  knowledge  which  is  not  derived  from  the 
natural  or-external  world,  but  the  capricious  world  of  man,  and  the  appreciation  of  his  finite 
characteristics  and  conditions. 

If,  then,  the  great  masterpieces  of  Shakspeare,  such  as  his  Othello,  Macbeth,  and  Hamlet, 
were  not  likely  to  have  been  the  work  of  his  boyhood  —  not  likely  to  have  been  produced 
before  his  twenty-fifth  year  at  least  —  in  what  manner  did  he  employ  his  genius  during  the 
ten  years  which  preceded  this  period  ?  To  suppose  that  he  remained  idle,  pursuing  a  mere 

•  Shakspeare  went  to  London  in  his  twenty-third  year,  and  Titus  Andronicus  appeared  soon  after,  and 
became  instantly  popular.  Indeed,  it  was  one  of  the  best  pieces  that  had  yet  appeared  on  the  English 
stage,  however  much  we  may  despise  it  now  ;  and  the  very  horrors  and  stateliness  for  which  we  condemn 
it,  were  the  peculiar  and  distinguishing  features  of  the  English  drama  at  that  period,  and  commended  it 
more  especially  to  the  taste  of  its  unlettered  audience.  In  Shakspeare's  subsequent  improvement,  it  is  his 
merit,  as  it  was  that  of  Chaucer,  to  have  lifted  his  people  with  him. 


GENERAL  INTRODUCTION.  7 

vegetable  life  in  Stratford,  from  his  fifteenth  to  his  twenty-third  year,  when  he  went  to  Lon- 
don, would  be  a  strangely  unreasonable  supposition.  It  is,  ordinarily,  about  the  fifteenth 
year  that  the  poetic  germ,  in  persons  thus  endowed,  usually  begins  to  exhibit  itself  with 
zeal  and  activity.  To  suppose  that  he  did  nothing  until  his  twenty-fourth  year,  when  Titus 
Andronicus  first  appeared,  and  that  his  first  attempt  should  place  him  above  all  his  prede- 
cessors, from  whom  he  must  have  learned  the  very  first  rudiments  of  his  art,  is  quite  im- 
probable. Rejecting  Titus  Andronicus  wholly,  is  it  not  equally  unreasonable  to  imagine  that 
he  leaped  to  perfection  at  a  single  bound,  armed  in  all  the  panoply,  not  merely  of  genius, 
but  of  thought,  study,  and  experience,  like  Minerva,  full  clad  and  grown,  from  the  thigh  of 
Jupiter  ?  How  much  more  reasonable  to  assume  that  his  youth  was  employed  in  those 
crude  performances  which  have  been  ascribed  to  him  by  his  contemporaries  and  their  imme- 
diate successors  ;  —  that  it  was  with  his  Locrines  and  Titus  Andronicuses  that  he  first  began 
his  career  in  tragedy,  and  that  some  of  the  feeble  comedies  in  this  collection  were  the  first 
fruits  of  his  boyish  embraces  with  the  comic  muse.  There  is  nothing  improbable  or  unrea- 
sonable in  the  conjecture,  even  if  you  show,  not  only  that  these  crude  productions  are  im- 
measurably inferior  to  his  great  works,  but  that  they  are  totally  unlike  them  in  all  the  pecu- 
liar characteristics  by  which  the  master  makes  himself  known.  In  these,  a  mere  beginner, 
for  the  first  time  practising  in  an  unfamiliar  art,  he  naturally  wrote  in  the  fashion  of  the 
times.  The  horrors  of  Locrine  and  Titus  Andronicus  —  the  unbroken  stateliness  of  the 
lines,  the  swelling  pomp  of  the  diction,  the  free  use  of  the  heathen  mythology,  and  the  ex- 
travagant rant  of  all  the  characters  —  were  the  common  characteristics  of  all  dramatic  wri- 
ting at  this  period ;  but  it  is  no  less  remarkable  than  true,  that,  though  in  these  respects 
partaking  of  all  the  vices  common  to  the  dramatic  authors  of  the  time,  the  author  of  Titus 
Andronicus  was  still  their  superior  :  and  this  very  production  was  as  far  superior,  in  its  real 
merits  and  proofs  of  genius,  to  most  of  its  contemporaries,  as  Shakspeare's  better  dramas 
are  superior  to  it. 

We  have  said  that  the  deficiency  of  these  works,  in  the  usual  characteristics  of  Shak- 
speare  —  though  we  are  far  from  admitting  this  deficiency  in  all  respects  —  is  by  no  means 
to  be  regarded  as  an  argument  against  their  legitimacy.  The  opinion  is  not  entertained 
without  serious  deliberation.  The  truth  is,  that  a  young  author  seldom  writes  from  himself 
at  first.  He  is  more  apt  to  write  like  anybody  but  himself.  He  subdues  and  suppresses 
himself.  He  does  not  feel  himself.  He  is  compelled  to  look  out  of  himself  for  models  and 
authorities,  before  he  can  properly  unfold  himself,  and  he  naturally  turns  his  regards  upon 
the  writers  who  are  most  popular  —  whose  books  are  most  cried  up  by  his  neighbors,  and 
whose  stature  most  imposingly  rises  upon  his  young  and  timid  imagination.  This  very  un- 
folding of  self  is  the  great  business  of  life  —  never  wholly  effected,  even  with  the  utmost  dili- 
gence, until  the  author  has  reached  the  mellow  period  of  middle  life,  and  seldom  entirely  then. 
We  have  numerous  illustrative  examples  of  this  history  in  modern  times,  with  which  the  reader 
is  familiar.  Who,  for  example,  ever  looked  to  the  feeble  ballads  of  Walter  Scott,  poor  imita- 
tions of  Monk  Lewis,  for  the  splendid  creations  of  Marmion  and  Ivanhoe  ?  Who,  in  the  boy- 
ish ditties  and  college  exercises  of  Lord  Byron,  so  cruelly  but  justly  cut  up  by  Brougham,  in 
the  Edinburgh  Review,  would  have  looked  for  signs  of  that  genius  which  afterward  brought 
forth  Manfred,  Childe  Harold,  and  Cain  ?  Or  who,  in  Cloudesley,  the  work  of  Godwin's 
senility,  would  recognise  the  daring  and  vigorous  writer  of  Caleb  Williams  and  St.  Leon? 
The  inequalities  between  the  imputed  and  the  acknowledged  writings  of  Shakspeare  are 
hardly  greater  than  these  contrasted  performances  of  writers  in  our  own  period,  and  the 
dawnings  are  equally  unlike  the  characteristics  of  the  day  which  followed.  The  beginnings 
of  a  young  writer  are  necessarily  feeble,  and,  mostly,  grossly  imitative.  His  first  aim  is  not 
idea  or  structure.  It  is  the  power  of  voice  only  —  such  as  his  peculiar  art  requires  —  the 
command  of  language  in  oratorical  array.  This  very  necessity  makes  him  imitative  of  va- 
rious authors ;  —  and  he  never  becomes  in  any  degree  original,  until  he  has  acquired  such  a 
flexibility  of  speech  as  to  enable  him  to  clothe  his  thoughts,  as  they  arise,  with  utterance. 


8  GENERAL  INTRODUCTION. 

Gradually,  his  original  vein  unfolds  itself.  You  have,  amid  masses  of  common-place,  an 
occasional  germ  which  betrays  freshness.  You  see  a  certain  peculiarity  of  thought  and 
manner,  and  possibly  glimpses  of  design  and  conception,  which  are  only  buried  where  they 
occur,  but  which  the  author  will  be  apt,  finally,  to  extricate  from  the  places  where  they 
were  first  planted,  as  in  a  nursery,  and  set  out  elsewhere  in  a  connexion  which  shall  enable 
them  to  flourish  appropriately,  and  to  their  most  legitimate  effect. 

In  these  plays,  whether  by  Shakspeare  or  not,  will  be  found  several  instances  of  the  germ, 
which  has  afterward  been  developed  nobly  in  his  subsequent  performances.  Here  and  there 
a  line  or  thought,  and  here  the  glimpses  of  a  scene  or  scheme,  which  the  timid  and  unprac- 
tised hand  of  the  boy-beginner  had  not  courage  or  patience  to  pursue  to  its  complete  suc- 
cesses in  the  first  premature  endeavors  of  his  muse.  Let  us  pursue  this  point  a  little  farther, 
by  a  reference  to  the  supposed  order  in  which  his  plays  are  thought  to  have  been  produced. 
This  conjectural  arrangement,  by  the  way,  is  exceedingly  illusory.  It  resolves  itself,  apart 
from  the  evidence  of  the  author  himself,  into  mere  guesswork,  since,  even  the  first  publish- 
ing of  a  piece  affords  us  no  certain  assurance  that  there  are  not  others  in  his  possession  that 
do  not  precede  it  in  point  of  time.  Nor  axe  the  intrinsic  qualities  of  the  piece  any  better 
guides,  since  the  experience  of  all  literature  shows  the  frequent  fact  of  the  failure  following 
the  successful  effort,  quite  as  commonly  as  it  precedes  it.  But,  taking  these  estimates  for  what 
they  are  worth,  let  us  see  how  the  case  appears.  We  have  before  us  the  several  conjec- 
tures of  Chalmers,  Malone,  and  Drake.  Titus  Andronicus  was  produced  upon  the  stage 
when  Shakspeare  was  twenty-three  years  of  age.  The  Comedy  of  Errors,  according  to 
Chalmers  and  Drake,  appeared  first  in  1591 ;  and  Malone  says  1592.  This  would  make 
Shakspeare,  who  was  born  in  1564,  twenty-seven  or  twenty-eight  years  of  age.  Now,  we 
are  free  to  declare  the  opinion,  that,  of  the  two  pieces,  Titus  Andronicus  is  immeasurably 
the  best,  and  exhibits  an  immense  superiority  over  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  in  all  the  essential 
proofs  of  poetry  and  character.  Hamlet  is  supposed  to  have  been  produced  (Chalmers  and 
Drake)  in  1597 ;  Malone,  more  probably  we  think,  makes  it  1600,  or  nine  years  after  the 
production  of  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  and  twelve  years  after  that  of  Titus  Andronicus.  Now, 
if  we  compare  the  relative  gain  of  Shakspeare's  genius,  in  this  stretch,  whether  of  nine  or 
twelve  years,  as  illustrated  by  the  superiority  of  his  Hamlet  over  the  Comedy  of  Errors, 
what  may  we  assume  it  to  have  been  during  the  interval  from  his  twenty-seventh  year, 
when  the  Comedy  was  produced,  and  the  period  of  his  life  at  Stratford,  from  fifteen  to 
twenty-three,  when  it  is  scarcely  rational  to  suppose  that  he  lay  completely  idle  ?  He  who 
examines  carefully  the  plays  in  this  collection,  will  find  no  such  wonderful  inequality  be- 
tween them,  and  the  Titus  Andronicus,  Comedy  of  Errors,  and  Pericles  —  pieces  which 
any  attempt  to  wrest  from  Shakspeare  is  eminently  absurd  —  as  exists  between  these  latter 
pieces  and  the  great  works  which  make  him  the  wondrous  master  that  he  is.  In  the  three 
plays  just  mentioned,  his  now-admitted  works,  there  is  greater  polish,  symmetry,  dexterity, 
and  worldly  knowledge  ;  but  the  germs  of  poetry  are  not  more  frequent,  nor  more  decided, 
nor  the  proofs  of  originality  and  invention  more  certain  or  satisfactory.  The  acknowledged 
plays  of  Shakspeare,  thirty  in  number,  including  Pericles  and  Titus  Andronicus,  occupy,  in 
the  period  of  their  production,  a  space  of  time  ranging  from  1588  to  1614  —  a  period  of 
twenty-seven  years.  This,  if  he  began  at  twenty-four,  the  period  when  Titus  Andronicus 
was  produced,  and  ceased  to  produce  in  1613,  when  he  left  the  theatre,  and  retired  from 
London  to  Stratford,  would  show  an  average  production  of  one  play  to  every  eight  months. 
How  many,  then,  should  he  have  written  during  the  long  period  of  probation,  when,  if  we 
receive  not  the  writings  of  this  volume,  he  did  absolutely  nothing.  Supposing  him,  how- 
ever, to  have  been  equally  industrious  and  prolific,  as  Ben  Jonson  and  others  of  his  contem- 
poraries tell  us  that  he  was,  is  it  not  highly  probable  that  he  carried  with  him  a  considerable 
stock  to  London.  He  went  thither  in  1587.  Two  things  may  be  assumed  for  him  in  this 
connexion,  namely,  that  he  would  seek  publication  as  soon  as  possible,  and  that  he  would 
bring  out  his  best  production  first.  Titus  Andronicus,  accordingly,  appeared  in  15S8-'9 


GENERAL  INTRODUCTION.  9 

Pericles,  according  to  Drake,  in  1590 ;  and,  as  we  have  seen,  the  Comedy  of  Errors  appeared 
the  year  after.  These  were,  no  doubt,  the  best  pieces  in  our  young  poet's  collection  —  Titus 
Andronicus  being  really  the  best  of  these.  Their  success  may  have  stifled  his  inferior  pro- 
ductions in  the  birth,  or  have  prompted  him  to  put  them  forth  indifferently  or  anonymously, 
under  the  obvious  necessity  of  not  risking  the  renown  which  he  had  already  won,  by  works, 
the  crudities  of  which  his  now-rapidly  growing  experience  enabled  him  to  see.  His  Love's 
Labor's  Lost,  another  of  these  inferior  productions,  but  less  offensive  by  its  crudities,  and 
more  decidedly  a  work  of  art,  was  suffered  to  appear  in  1591  (according  to  Drake),  1592 
(Malone),  1594  (Chalmers).  The  conjecture  of  Drake  is  the  most  reasonable,  though  we 
must  repeat  that  nothing  can  be  more  unsatisfactory  or  doubtful  than  these  speculations. 
We  need  not  continue  them.  Taking  them  for  what  they  are  worth  —  and  they  embody  no 
improbabilities  —  and  we  have  reason  to  assume,  that  he  whose  progress  in  dramatic  art  had 
been  so  moderate  between  the  period  when  he  produced  these  latter  pieces,  and  the  first, 
might  naturally  enough  have  written  the  works  in  the  following  collection  at  a  still  earlier 
date.  We  insist  that  the  characteristics  of  the  pieces  above  mentioned  are  not  much  more 
decidedly  like  those  of  the  great  —  the  full-grown  —  Shakspeare,  than  the  performances 
which  have  been  imputed  and  denied.  But,  our  opinion  is,  that  the  prolific  youth  took  with 
him  to  London  the  germs  of  all  these  early  plays  —  the  Comedy  of  Errors,  as  well  as  Peri- 
cles, and  Titus  Andronicus,  the  Love's  Labor's  Lost,  and  the  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona  — 
that  he  there  altered  and  amended  them,  as  his  increasing  experience  with  the  stage  and 
people  counselled,  and  that  the  inequalities  of  thought  and  language,  to  be  found  in  all  these 
pieces,  and  which  so  constantly  compel  the  critics  to  cry  aloud  that  they  see  two  different 
hands  at  work,  are  due  entirely  to  these  graftings,  made  by  the  more  practised  hand,  upon  the 
imperfect  growth  of  its  more  feeble  and  inexperienced  planting.  Doubtless,  if  time  had 
been  allowed  him  —  were  not  his  muse  too  prolific  and  too  fond  of  the  provocation  of  new 
scenes  and  subjects,  which  diverted  him  from  works,  the  topics  of  which  could  no  longer 
excite  his  imagination  —  we  should  have  seen  these  pieces  furbished  up  in  the  same  manner, 
and  have  been  compelled,  by  the  obvious  impress  of  the  master,  shown  here  and  there  by  a 
decisive  thought  and  fancy,  and  such  lines  as  betray  a  grace  which  genius  knows  how  to 
snatch  from  nature  without  the  assistance  of  art,  to  admit  the  still-abortive  production  as 
from  the  unquestionable  hand  of  Shakspeare.  These  pieces  were  thus  suffered  to  find  their 
way  to  the  stage  and  the  public,  without  the  paternal  care  which  they  could  no  more 
reward  ;  or,  it  is  possible  that  they  preceded  even  Titus  Andronicus  in  performance,  and  that 
they  were  brought  out  by  his  friends,  the  players,  at  Stratford,  or  were  carried  up,  by  the 
same  hands,  to  London,  even  before  he  adventured  to  the  great  city  himself,  and  were  finally 
left  to  their  fate,  in  consequence  of  that  condition  of  things  in  the  theatrical  world,  a  proper 
knowledge  of  which  would  tend  to  account  for  that  otherwise  singular  indifference  which 
the  dramatic  authors  of  that  time  have  shown  toward  their  productions.  A  few  words  on 
this  head,  in  explanation,  may  not  be  unadvisable. 

There  was  really  no  such  indifference  of  the  author,  to  the  fate  of  his  writings,  as  our 
frequent  wonder  and  lamentations  have  unjustly  made  to  appear.  The  old  dramatists  were 
as  jealous  of  their  fame,  their  name,  and  the  fortunes  of  their  pieces,  as  the  most  sen- 
sitive writers  now.  By  constant  squabbles  and  controversies,  which  not  unfrequently  grew 
from  words  to  blows,  they  proved  themselves  to  be  true  members  of  the  genus  irritabile 
ratum.  A  world  of  pamphlets,  essays,  critiques,  prefaces,  and  epigrams,  remain  to  us, 
illustrating  this  belligerent  disposition,  from  the  pens  of  a  host  of  angry  combatants  ;  and 
when  their  pieces  were  denounced  and  driven  from  the  stage,  they  rushed  to  the  press,  am1 
made  their  final  appeal  —  their  temper  quite  as  apparent  as  their  logic  —  to  the  judgments 
of  a  higher  class,  or  to  the  more  deliberate,  the  sober  second  thought,  of  the  very  critics 
by  whom  the  pieces  had  been  censured.  The  plays,  accordingly,  which  we  have  received 
from  the  hands  of  the  authors  themselves,  are  those,  chiefly,  which  failed  upon  the  stage. 
These,  consequently,  are  likely  to  have  come  to  us  in  the  most  perfect  condition.  That 


10  GENERAL  INTRODUCTION. 

such  should  le  the  case,  is  not  a  subject  of  surprise  to  those  who  remember  that  the  legit 
imate  mode  of  dramatic  publication  is  from  the  stage,  and  not  from  the  press.  A  suc- 
cessful play  was  a  property  of  the  theatre,  for  which  it  was  usually  written,  not  unfre- 
quently  under  contract  with  the  manager ;  and  it  derived  its  value  almost  entirely  from  the 
fact  that  it  was  kept  from  the  press.  It  was  thus  preserved  as  a  novelty,  and  always  bore 
an  air  of  freshness  when  it  was  produced.  The  great  cause  of  the  decline  of  modern  theat- 
ricals, is  to  be  found  in  the  fact  that  the  press  has  made  the  people  familiar  with  the  pieces 
played  ;  and  those  who  attend  the  theatre,  accordingly,  go  only  to  discriminate  between  the 
styles  of  actors  —  thus  substituting  one  art  for  another  —  to  witness  the  pageantry,  hear  the 
music,  and  see  the  company.  In  withholding  the  play  from  the  press,  the  manager  equally 
withheld  it  from  the  author.  The  latter  had  sold  entirely  the  right  of  property  in  his  pro- 
duction, and  no  longer  held  any  control  ovej  its  destination.  The  work  of  his  hands  was 
thus  entirely  released  from  his  jurisdiction.  It  could  be  lopped  or  lengthened  at  the  pleasure 
of  the  manager,  played  or  suppressed,  altered  in  title,  and  subjected  to  alterations  and  interpo- 
lations, to  suit  particular  exigencies  and  occasions  ;  and  these  alterations  were  as  frequently 
confided  to  the  hands  of  strangers  as  to  those  of  the  original  author.  In  this  way,  it  is  not 
unreasonably  supposed,  that  Shakspeare  himself  has  given  his  peculiar  impress  to  the  works 
of  inferior  artists,  and  that  his  own  great  productions  have  been  impaired  by  the  unskilled 
efforts  of  common  workmen,  to  adapt  his  pieces  to  the  common  standard,  or  the  particular 
occasion.  The  great  body  of  English  dramatic  literature  never  found  its  way  to  the  press 
at  all,  until  in  the  ascendency  of  the  puritans,  when  the  theatres  being  overthrown  and 
abolished,  the  property  ceased  to  have  a  value  in  the  original  and  legitimate  form  of  publi- 
cation, and  was  sold  to,  or  seized  upon  by,  the  early  publishers,  to  whose  carelessness  and 
ignorance  we  owe  the  wretched  mangling  to  which  the  finest  strains  of  tragic  song  have 
been  subjected,  and  from  which  the  original  and  perfect  versions  have,  to  this  day,  but  im- 
perfectly recovered.  To  any  one  who  has  ever  seen  a  first  edition  of  Shakspeare's  Hamlet, 
it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say,  that  the  piece  is  not  to  be  recognised  at  all,  compared  with 
the  restored  production,  faulty  as  that  still  is,  which  we  now  possess.  The  breaking  up  of 
the  theatres  led  to  the  dispersion  equally  of  players  and  plays.  The  latter,  scattered  abroad 
in  various  hands,  were  lost  and  destroyed  in  immense  numbers.  Where  they  survived  the 
tender  mercies  of  such  appreciating  critics  as  the  Cook  of  Warburton,  they  still  suffered 
from  a  treatment  which  nothing  but  the  native  hardihood  of  their  constitutions  enabled  them 
to  withstand.  Neither  the  sway  of  the  Stuarts,  nor  that  of  Cromwell,  was  favcfrable  to  the 
higher  forms  of  art  and  poetry.  The  divine  genius  of  Milton  succumbed  under  the  one,  and 
was  compelled  to  work  as  a  politician  only  for  the  other ;  while  the  bald  comedy  of  an  infe- 
rior school,  to  which  a  vastly  inferior  talent  was  the  minister,  failed  utterly  to  compensate 
the  nation  for  the  manhood,  the  soul,  the  vigorous,  sinewy,  and  deeply-energetic  blood  and 
courage,  of  the  earlier  and  the  nobler  muse.  That  Dryden  must  be  recognised  as  a  redeem- 
ing worker  in  the  more  modern  period,  will  not  impair  the  justice  of  its  general  condemna- 
tion. When  the  plays  of  the  old  dramatists  found  their  way  to  the  press  at  first,  they 
enjoyed  none  of  the  advantages  of  editorship.  The  players  themselves,  unless  in  the  case 
of  their  own  writings,  which  they  seldom  edited,  were  indifferent  as  to  what  became  of  pieces 
which  no  longer  yielded  them  a  livelihood.  The  proprietors  gave  or  sold  them  to  the  .press, 
without  feeling  or  affection  ;  and  the  publishers,  if  not  so  indifferent  as  the  players,  were 
less  capable  of  correct  readings  of  the  manuscript.  Titlepages  were  lost,  blurred,  or  oblit- 
erated ;  titles  themselves  were  changed,  to  suit  the  whim  of  the  publisher,  or  meet  the 
fashions  of  the  times.  The  plays  were  hurried  through  the  press,  with  all  their  imperfec- 
tions on  their  heads.  The  original  draughts  of  the  author  —  the  copies  of  the  player,  cov- 
ered with  his  private  marks  or  opinions  —  were  published  just  as  the  printer  found  them, 
defaced  with  extraneous  matter,  which  was  perversely  incorporated  with  the  text.  Verse 
was  printed  as  if  it  were  prose,  and  prose  as  verse.  Stage  directions  were  mingled  with  the 
matter,  lengthening  the  line,  and  baffling  the  sense  ;  and  even  the  cues  of  actors,  and  their 


GENERAL  INTRODUCTION.  11 

sometimes  whimsical  and  mischievous  comments,  were  studiously  set  forth  to  the  reader,  in 
the  body  of  the  play,  to  the  equal  disparagement  of  the  sense  and  symmetry  of  the  piece. 
It  is  only  of  late  days  that  the  press  has  been  repairing  its  own  mischief,  in  the  case  of  the 
early  dramatists  ;  whose  fortunes  have  been  thus  peculiar,  from  the  peculiar  characteristics 
of  their  profession,  and  not  from  any  such  wholesale  indifference  to  the  awards  of  fame  as 
has  been  so  thoughtlessly  ascribed  to  them.  English  and  German  criticism,  with  an  inge- 
nuity and  industry  which  can  scarcely  be  too  highly  commended,  has  done  wonders  in  re- 
trieving many  noble  writings  from  oblivion,  by  correcting  the  mistakes,  and  amending  the 
decisions,  of  a  preceding  age  ;  restoring  the  purity  of  the  text  of  favorite  authors  —  particu- 
larly Shakspeare  —  so  as  to  afford  us  a  tolerably  fair  substitute  for  writings  which  no  substi- 
tute, not  of  an  author's  own  choosing,  can  possibly  hope  to  render  altogether  satisfactory. 

The  undoubted  plays  of  Shakspeare,  published  in  his  lifetime,  were  Othello,  Troilus  and 
Cressida,  King  Lear,  Hamlet,  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  Mid- 
summer Night's  Dream,  Merchant  of  Venice,  the  first  and  second  parts  of  Henry  IV., 
Henry  V.,  parts  II.  and  III.  of  Henry  VI.,  Love's  Labor's  Lost,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  and 
Richard  II.  and  III.  To  these  are  to  be  added  Pericles  and  Titus  Andronicus.  The  editions 
thus  published  were  all  imperfect,  apparently  from-  copies  surreptitiously  obtained ;  and 
some,  as  in  the  case  of  Hamlet,  from  reporters  at  the  theatre,  relying  chiefly  on  the  ear  for 
the  text,  during  the  rapid  and  passionate  enunciation  of  the  performers.  Both  proprietor 
and  author  were  equally  interested  in  arresting  such  a  practice  ;  but  it  was  one  for  which 
the  crude  and  imperfect  legislation  of  that  day  —  scarcely  much  bettered,  in  respect  of  copy- 
right, in  our  own  —  could  suggest  no  remedy. 

The  pieces  in  the  collection  which  follows  —  the  Two  Noble  Kinsmen  excepted  —  were 
also  printed,  either  with  his  name  or  his  initials,  in  the  lifetime  of  Shakspeare.  An  edition 
of  his  works,  put  forth  after  his  death,  by  Heminge  and  Condell,  his  friends,  associate  pro- 
prietors with  him  of  the  Globe  theatre,  contained  (making  the  same  exception)  the  same 
body  of  plays :  and  the  dedications  and  prefaces  to  this  edition  are  supposed,  with  reason, 
to  have  been  from  the  pen  of  Ben  Jonson,  his  intimate  friend,  and  most  profound  and  dis- 
criminating admirer.  They  and  he  ought  to  have  known  whether  these  plays  could  prop- 
erly, or  should,  be  imputed  to  his  pen.  They  include  them  without  comment,  and,  seem- 
ingly, without  doubt  or  misgiving. 

The  plays  which  have  been  imputed  to  Shakspeare,  but  which  the  critics  have  concluded 
to  regard  as  doubtful,  may  be  divided  into  two  classes.  The  one  consists  of  those  plays 
only  which  have  been  (wholly  or  in  part)  ascribed  to  his  pen,  and  included,  at  an  early  pe- 
riod, among  his  works  ;  the  other,  of  those  which  a  vague  tradition,  no  longer  to  be  followed, 
has  assigned  him,  or  which  have  been  assumed  to  be  his,  in  consequence  of  certain  supposed 
resemblances  to  his  writings,  in  thought  and  manner,  which  have  been  discovered  in  them 
by  ingenious  criticism.  The  present  publication  is  confined  wholly  to  the  former  class.  It 
comprises  seven  dramas.  The  first  of  these  —  the  Two  Noble  Kinsmen  —  is  supposed  to  be 
from  the  joint  hands  of  Shakspeare  and  Fletcher.  The  first  act,  indeed,  has  been  confidently 
ascribed  to  the  pen  of  the  former,  not  merely  by  the  critics,  on  the  strength  of  its  peculiar 
merits,  but  by  a  tradition  of  the  playhouse.  On  this  point,  our  opinion,  which  is  offered 
with  great  deference,  will  be  found  in  the  immediate  introduction  to  the  play  in  question. 
The  six  other  plays  are  in  the  order  of  the  old  folio  of  Heminge  and  Condell :  the  London 
Prodigal  ;  the  History  of  Thomas  Lord  Cromwell ;  Sir  John  Oldcastle  —  Lord  Cobham ; 
The  Puritan,  or  the  Widow  of  Watling  Street ;  a  Yorkshire  Tragedy ;  and  the  Tragedy  of 
Locrine. 

The  history  of  these  six  plays,  so  far  as  it  is  now  known  to  us,  will  be  found  in  the  sepa- 
rate introductions,  as  they  occur  at  the  opening  of  each,  and  will  not  require  farther  notice. 
Indeed,  most  of  these  introductions  have  been  rendered  copious,  somewhat  at  the  expense 
of  the  "general  introduction,"  suggesting  views  and  arguments  which  might  have  been 
examined  here.  They  will  not,  accordingly,  require  our  farther  consideration. 


12  GENERAL  INTRODUCTION. 

Of  the  second  class  of  imputed  plays,  which  do  not  appear  in  this  volume,  the  list  is  quite 
as  large  as  the  former.  It  comprises  "  Arden  of  Feversham"  —  a  piece  of  considerable  merit ; 
"  the  Reign  of  King  Edward  III."  —  a  work  so  like  Shakspeare's,  in  the  respects  of  versifi- 
cation and  manner,  that  it  is  difficult  to  hit  upon  any  writer  who  could  so  happily  have  imi- 
tated him ;  "  George  a-Greene,  the  Pinner  of  Wakefield"  —  which  is  now  supposed  to  have 
been  written  by  Robert  Greene,  but  upon  the  most  slender  of  all  sorts  of  evidence  ;  "  Fair 
Emma"  —  which  Mr.  Knight  assigns  to  a  period  subsequent  to  the  death  of  Shakspeare ; 
"  Mucedorus,"  of  which  we  know  nothing,  and  can  express  no  opinion,  —  Tieck  and  Horn, 
the  German  critics,  pronounce  it  a  youthful  production  of  Shakspeare ;  Mr.  Knight  gives  us 
a  brief  analysis  of  the  story,  describes  it  as  a  lively  play,  with  some  few  passages  of  merit, 
but,  otherwise,  speaks  of  it  slightingly ;  —  "  The  Birth  of  Merlin"  —  which,  in  its  first  known 
edition,  that  of  1662,  was  announced  as  the  joint  production  of  Shakspeare  and  Rowley ; 
and  "  The  Merry  Devil  of  Edmonton"  —  a  performance  which,  as  Mr.  Knight  justly  remarks, 
is  that  of  a  true  poet,  whoever  he  may  be. 

These  seven  plays,  constituting  the  whole  number  of  those,  the  ascription  of  which  to 
William  Shakspeare  rests  chiefly  upon  opinion,  may  be  made,  hereafter,  to  constitute  the 
materials  for  an  additional  volume  to  that  which  is  now  offered  to  the  public.  In  compiling 
and  preparing  such  a  collection  for  the  press,  the  object  will  be,  as  in  the  present  instance, 
not  to  assert,  or  even  to  assume,  that  the  writings  in  question  are  those  of  Shakspeare,  or  so 
to  argue  as  in  anywise  to  give  a  direction  to  the  question  which  denies  their  legitimacy,  but 
simply  to  enable  the  reader  to  be  sure  that  he  loses  nothing,  even  of  what  is  puerile  and 
immature,  in  the  writings  of  so  great  a  master.  It  is  thought  better  and  safer  to  impute  to 
him,  erroneously,  those  productions  to  which  no  other  author  presents  an  equally  reasonable 
claim,  than  to  leave  the  reader  in  doubt  whether  some  of  the  performances  of  his  favorite 
have  not  been  withheld  from  his  possession. 


INTRODUCTION 


TO 


THE     TWO    NOBLE     KINSMEN. 


THIS  play  was  first  printed  in  1 634,  with  the  fol- 
owing  title  :  "  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen:  presented 
at  the  Black  Friers  by  the  King's  majesty's  servants, 
with  great  applause  :  written  by  the  memorable  wor- 
thies of  their  time,  Mr.  John  Fletcher  and  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Shakspeare,  gent.,  and  printed  at  London  by 
Thos.  Cotes,  for  John  Waterstone,  and  are  to  be  solde 
at  the  signe  of  the  Crowne  in  Paul's  churchyard  — 
1634."  In  the  first  folio  edition  of  the  works  of 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  in  1647,  the  Two  Noble  Kins- 
men did  not  appear.  It  is  reprinted  in  the  second 
folio  edition,  with  some  slight  alterations  from  the 
quarto. 

The  story  is  taken  from  the  "  Knight's  Tale,"  in 
the  Canterbury  Tales  of  Chaucer.  It  is  certainly  a 
very  fine  performance  ;  marked  by  considerable  ine- 
qualities of  execution,  but  lifted  by  frequent  passa- 
ges of  great  nobleness,  delicacy  and  power.  In 
some  portions,  the  plot  is  managed  with  skill  and 
spirit;  the  slightest  suggestions  of  Chaucer's  muse 
being  seized  upon  and  brought  out  with  the  happiest 
and  most  dramatic  effect.  In  other  parts,  we  have 
to  regret  that  the  dramatist  has  slurred  over  some 
of  the  points  made  by  the  old  poet,  which  might  have 
been  illustrated  with  rare  scenic  ability.  The  open- 
ing scene,  considering  the  action  only,  is  quite  wor- 
thy of  Shakspeare's  hand,  even  if  it  did  not  employ 
it.  It  presents  a  dramatic  spectacle  of  great  and 
tragic  interest.  Other  scenes  correspond  with  this 
in  merit :  we  may  instance  that  in  which  the  broth- 
ers assist  each  other  in  putting  on  their  armor  before 
the  duel,  and  that  in  which  they  appear  severally  be- 
fore their  favorite  deities  with  their  invocations  and 
offerings.  These  scenes  must  have  shown  very  im- 
pressively upon  the  stage.  They  unite  high  tragic 
dignity  with  a  progressive  dramatic  interest,  which, 
while  it  raised  the  expectations  of  the  audience,  filled 
their  hearts  with  solemnity  and  emotion. 

The  story  is  one  of  considerable  difficulties,  being 
better  suited,  in  some  of  the  most  interesting  por- 
tions, for  narrative  and  epic,  than  for  dramatic  pur- 
poses. Some  of  the  most  important  events  are  con- 
veyed to  the  spectator  by  narration,  rather  than  in 
action.  It  is  enough  to  indicate  the  combat  between 


the  rivals  and  their  friends,  and  the  final  catastrophe 
which  determines  the  fate  of  the  triumphant  party. 
Another  of  the  obstacles  to  the  complete  dramatic 
success  of  this  tragedy,  is  that  want  of  personal 
prominence  and  individual  superiority  in  either  of 
the  chief  characters,  on  which  so  much  of  the  suc- 
cess of  a  play  depends.  The  rival  youths,  Palamon 
and  Arcite,  are  distinguished  rather  by  the  descrip- 
tive passages  of  the  author,  than  by  their  own  per- 
formances, or,  in  these,  only  in  the  minor  and  less 
impressive  portions  of  the  piece.  There  is  no  such 
inequality  of  character,  between  the  princes,  as  will 
permit  the  audience  to  choose  between  them.  The 
spectator  knows  not  which  to  make  his  favorite,  and 
dare  not  yield  his  sympathies  to  one  of  the  parties, 
lest  he  should  do  wrong  to  the  claims  of  the  other. 
They  are  both  equally  pure,  brave,  and  virtuous  — 
equally  accomplished  in  arms,  and  alike  graceful  and 
winning  in  deportment.  To  decide  between  them, 
the  author  himself  finds  impossible,  and  can  only 
extricate  himself  from  his  embarrassment  by  throw, 
ing  the  catastrophe  upon  the  gods  —  an  accident  de- 
termining  the  success  of  one  of  the  princes,  after  the 
prize  has  actually  been  awarded  to  his  opponent. 

The  question  of  the  authorship  of  this  play  is  one 
much  more  difficult  to  decide  than  its  merits.  An 
old  tradition  of  the  play-house  reports  that  the 
first  act  was  written  by  Shakspeare,  and  the  rest  by 
Fletcher.  The  tradition,  with  the  titlepage  of  the 
quarto  of  1634,  are  therefore  the  only  direct  external 
evidence  in  favor  of  the  notion  that  Shakspeare  had 
a  hand  in  its  production.  The  evidence  is  almost 
equally  doubtful,  indeed,  of  Fletcher's  participation 
in  it.  The  first  editors  of  the  collected  edition  of 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  works  omit  the  Two  Noble 
Kinsmen, withseventeen  other  plays,  because  it  had 
been  printed  before  in  separate  form.  It  is  included 
in  the  second  edition  of  1679,  in  order,  as  they  al- 
lege, that  the  writings  of  these  authors  may  be  "  per- 
fect and  complete."  That  they  were  not  prepared  to 
make  it  so,  with  proper  circumspection,  maybe  infer- 
red from  the  fact  that  they  included  in  this  collection 
one,  at  least,  of  the  known  performances  of  another 
writer.  The  truth  is,  the  external  testimony  is  very 


14 


INTRODUCTION. 


nearly  a  blank  in  regard  to  the  claims  of  both  drama- 
tists. It  may  be  Shakspeare's,  or  it  may  be  Fletcher's. 
The  claim  of  the  latter,  from  intrinsic  evidence,  seems 
to  me  the  better  founded.  On  the  same  evidence,  could 
we  rely  upon  it  solely  —  were  it  not,  indeed,  the  most 
uncertain  and  most  illusory  of  all  modes  of  determin- 
ing authorship  —  we  should  say  that  Shakspeare 
never  wrote  a  syllable  of  the  piece  before  us,  though 
much  of  it  is  directly  imitated  from  Shakspeare. 
Yet  we  must  express  ourselves  with  becoming  defer- 
ence. Mr.  Pope  supposes  that  the  hand  of  Shak- 
speare may  be  discerned  in  some  of  the  scenes.  Dr. 
Warburton  believes  that  he  "  wrote  the  first  act,  but 
in  his  worst  manner."  Mr.  Coleridge  says  boldly, 
though,  as  he  was  wont  to  say  many  things,  adven- 
turously :  "  I  can  scarcely  retain  a  doubt  as  to  the 
first  act's  having  been  written  by  Shakspeare." 
Charles  Lamb  speaks  of  some  of  the  scenes  as  giving 
"  strong  countenance  to  the  tradition  that  Shakspeare 
had  a  hand  in  this  play They  have  a  luxuri- 
ance in  them  which  strongly  resembles  Shakspeare's 
manner,  in  those  parts  of  his  plays  where,  the  prog- 
ress of  the  scene  being  subordinate,  the  poet  was 
at  leisure  for  description."  The  German  critics,  who 
.claim  to  know  more  about  Shakspeare  than  the  Eng- 
lish, and  who  certainly  have  shown  a  just  sympathy 
with  his  genius,  by  their  fine  and  instinctive  appre- 
ciation of  it,  concur  in  this  opinion  ;  but  their  spec- 
ulations, as  well  as  those  which  we  have  quoted,  are 
wholly  conjectural,  and  based  upon  assumptions,  few 
of  which  will  bear  the  test  of  a  close  examination. 
As  we  have  seen,  we  have  not  a  tittle  of  external 
evidence  available  at  the  present  moment,  which 
can  furnish  any  sufficient  clues  to  the  mystery.  A 
glance  at  the  internal  proofs  satisfies  us  that  the 
Two  Noble  Kinsmen — a  noble  play,  worthy  of 
Fletcher,  Chapman,  or  Ben  Jon  son —  is  yet  not  Shak- 
speare's. It  does  not  show,  to  us  at  least,  any  satis- 
factory marks  of  his  footstep.  Ex  pede  Herculem. 
The  versification  is  not  his.  In  spite  of  what  Mr. 
Lamb  has  said  on  this  subject,  it  lacks  his  flow  and 
rivacity.  The  great  marks  of  Shakspeare  are  his 
equal  profundity  and  lucidity.  He  rises  always  with. 


a  wing  from  his  subject,  however  low  that  may  be, 
as  we  see  birds  skim  along  the  surface  of  the  ground, 
just  above  and  without  touching  it.  His  most  difficult 
thoughts,  ordinarily,  are  those  which  flow  most  mu- 
sically ;  and  the  more  comprehensive  the  range  of 
his  passions  and  ideas,  they  seem  to  choose  for  them- 
selves an  utterance  of  special  clearness  in  due  degree 
with  the  natural  obstacles  of  the  conception.  Now, 
let  the  reader  examine  the  metaphysical  verse  of  the 
Two  Noble  Kinsmen,  and  he  will  see  what  embar- 
rassments occur  to  the  utterance  of  the  writer  in  pro- 
portion to  the  subtlety  of  the  sentiment.  The  near- 
est approach  which  he  makes  to  Shakspeare's  ac- 
knowledged writings,  is  to  portions  of  such  plays  as 
Troilus  and  Cressida,  of  which  the  piece  before  us 
seems  partly  an  imitation.  Nor  are  these  difficulties 
of  utterance,  when  profound  thoughts  are  to  be  ex- 
pressed, calling  for  a  new  phraseology,  to  be  account- 
ed for  by  supposing  that  this  was  a  production  of  our 
great  dramatist  in  his  youth.  The  Two  Noble  Kins- 
men is  not  the  work  of  an  apprentice.  It  shows  the 
familiarity  of  a  master  with  his  tools  —  one  who 
would  have  done  greatly  better,  had  he  trusted  to 
himself  wholly,  avoiding  anything  like  imitation 
His  versification,  if  not  that  of  Shakspeare,  has 
force,  readiness,  compactness  and  animation.  It  is 
distinct  and  manly,  if  wanting  something  in  freedom  ; 
and  the  sentiment  is  declared  with  confidence  and 
promptness,  as  the  voice  of  one  who  has  been  long 
accustomed  to  speak.  Were  there  less  promptness, 
less  skill  and  spirit,  we  might  better  be  prepared  to 
admit  Shakspeare's  agency  in  the  piece  at  a  time 
when  he  had  not  yet  learned  the  extent  and 
strength  of  his  own  resources.  It  is  too  confident  a 
performance  for  the  inexperienced  writer,  and  too 
wanting  in  the  higher  freedoms  of  music  and  imagin- 
ation,for  Shakspeare,  in  the  day  of  his  mature  man- 
hood. It  is  very  certain  that  Shakspeare  never  con- 
ceived the  clumsy  copy  of  his  Ophelia  which  appears 
in  this  performance.  Is  it  probable  that  he  would 
have  participated  in  the  composition  of  a  play  in 
which  his  associate  should  presume  upon  such  a 
gross  caricature  ? 


THE  T¥0  NOBLE  KIISMEK. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

THESEUS,  Duke  of  Athens. 

PALAMON,  )  The  Two  Noble  Kinsmen,  in  love  with 

ARCITK,      )  Emilia. 

PERITHOOS,  an  Athenian  general. 

VALERIUS,  a  Theban  nobleman. 

Six  valiant  knights. 

Herald. 

Gaoler. 

Wooer  to  the  Gaoler's  Daughter. 

Brothers, 

Friends, 

QERROLD,  a  schoolmaster. 


to  the  Gaoler. 


HIPPOLYTA,  bride  to  Theseus. 

EMILIA,  her  sister. 

Three  Queens. 

Gaoler's  Daughter,  in  love  with  Palamon. 

Servant  to  Emilia. 

A  Talorer,  Countrymen,  Soldiers,  Nymphs,  SfC. 

SCENE,  — ATHENS  ;  and  in  part  of  the  First  Act, 
THEBES. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. 

Enter  HYMEN,  with  a  torch  burning  ;  a  Boy,  in  a  white 
robe,  before,  singing,  and  strewing  flowers ;  after 
HYMEN,  a  Nymph,  encompassed  in  her  tresses,  bear- 
ing a  wheaten  garland  ;  then  THESEUS,  between  two 
other  Nymphs,  vtith  wheaten  chaplets  on  their  heads  ; 
then  HIFPOLYTA,  the  bride,  led  by  PERITHOUS,  and 
another  holding  a  garland  over  her  head,  her  tresses 
likewise  hanging  ;  after  her,  EMILIA,  holding  up  her 
train.1 

SONG. 

Roses,  their  sharp  spines  being  gone, 
Not  royal  in  their  smells  alone, 

But  in  their  hue  ; 
Maiden-pinks,  of  odor  faint, 
Daisies  smell-less,  yet  most  quaint, 
And  sweet  thyme  true. 

Primrose,  first-born  child  of  Ver, 
Merry,  spring-time's  harbinger, 
With  her  bells2  dim  ; 

1  Thia  is  the  original  stage-direction ;  with  the  exception 
that  Hippolyta,  by  a  manifest  error  in  the  old  copies,  is  led 
by  Theseua.  8  Query :  Harebells  J 

2 


Oxlips  in  their  cradles  growing, 
Marigolds  on  death-beds  blowing, 
Larks'-heels  trim. 

All,  dear  Nature's  c5iildren  sweet, 
Lie  'fore  bride  and  bridegroom's  feet, 

Blessing  their  sense  !  [Strew flowm. 

Not  an  angel  of  the  air,3 
Bird  melodious,  or  bird  fair, 

Be*  absent  hence. 

The  crow,  the  slanderous  cuckoo,  nor 
The  boding  raven,  nor  chough  hoar,6 

Nor  chatt'ring  pie, 
May  on  our  bridehouse  perch  or  sing, 
Or  with  them  any  discord  bring, 

But  from  it  fly  ! 

Enter  three  Queens,  in  black,  with  veils  stained,  with 
imperial  crowns.  The  first  Queen  falls  down  at  the 
foot  of  THESEUS  ;  the  second  falls  down  at  the  foot  of 
HIPPOLYTA  ;  the  third  before  Emilia. 

1  Queen.  For  pity's  sake,  and  true  gentility, 
Hear  and  respect  me  ! 

2  Queen.  For  your  mother's  sake, 

And  as  you  wish  your  womb  may  thrive  with  fair 
Hear  and  respect  me !  [ones, 

3  Queen.  Now  for  the  love  of  him  whom  Jove 

hath  marked 

The  honor  of  your  bed,  and  for  the  sake 
Of  clear  virginity,  be  advocate 
For  us,  and  our  distresses !    This  good  deed 
Shall  raze  you  out  o'  the  book  of  trespasses 
All  you  are  set  down  there. 

Thes.  Sad  lady,  rise  ! 

Hip.  Stand  up ! 

Emi.  No  knees  to  me  ! 
What  woman  I  may  stead  that  is  distressed, 
Does  bind  me  to  her. 

Thes   What's  your  request  ?    Deliver  you  for  all. 

1  Queen.  We  are  three  queens,  whose  sovereigns 

fell  before 

The  wrath  of  cruel  Creon  ;  who  endured 
The  beaks  of  ravens,  talons  of  the  kites, 
And  pecks  of  crows,  in  the  foul  fields  of  Thebes. 
He  will  not  suffer  us  to  bum  their  bones, 
To  urn  their  ashes,  nor  to  take  th'  offence 
Of  mortal  loathsomeness  from  the  blessed  eye 
Of  holy  Phoebus,  but  infects  the  winds 

3  Angel  is  used  for  bird.    Dekker  calls  the  Roman  eagle 
"  the  Roman  angel." — Gifforfs  Massinger,  vol.  i,  p.  36. 
•*  Be.    The  early  copies,  it. 
5  dough  he  is  the  reading  of  the  old  editions. 


16 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


With  stench  of  our  slain  lords.    Oh,  pity,  duke  ! 
Thou  purger  of  the  earth,  draw  thy  feared  sword, 
That  does  good  turns  to  the  world  ;  give  us  the  bones 
Of  our  dead  kings,  that  we  may  chapel  them  ! 
And,  of  thy  boundless  goodness,  take  some  note, 
That,  for  our  crowned  heads,  we  have  no  roof 
Save  this,  which  is  the  lion's  and  the  bear's, 
And  vault  to  everything ! 

Thes.  Pray  you  kneel  not ! 
I  was  transported  with  your  speech,  and  suffered 
Your  knees  to  wrong  themselves.    I  have  heard  the 

fortunes 

Of  your  dead  lords,  which  gives  me  such  lamenting 
As  wakes  my  vengeance  and  revenge  for  them. 
King  Capaneus  was  your  lord  :  the  day 
That  he  should  marry  you,  at  such  a  season 
As  now  it  is  with  me,  I  met  your  groom 
By  Mars's  altar ;  you  were  that  time  fair, 
Not  Juno's  mantle  fairer  than  your  tresses, 
Nor  hi  more  bounty  spread  j1  your  wheaten  wreath 
Was  then  nor  thrashed,  nor  blasted.    Fortune  at  you 
Dimpled  her  cheek  with  smiles.    Her'cles,  our  kins- 
man, 

(Then  weaker  than  your  eyes)  laid  by  his  club  ; 
He  tumbled  down  upon  his  Nemean  hide, 
And  swore  his  sinews  thawed.    Oh,  grief  and  time, 
Fearful  consumers,  ye  will  all  devour  ! 

1  Queen.  Oh,  I  hope  some  god, 

Some  god  hath  put  his  mercy  in  your  manhood, 
Whereto  he  '11  infuse  power,  and  press  you  forth 
Our  undertaker ! 

Thes.  Oh,  no  knees  ;  none,  widow ! 

Unto  the  helmeted  Bellona  use  them, 
And  pray  for  me,  your  soldier. — Troubled  I  am. 

[Turns  away. 

2  Queen.  Honored  Hippolyta, 

Most  dreaded  Amazonian,  that  hast  slain 

The    scythe-tusked  boar;  —  that,  with  thy  arm  as 

As  it  is  white,  wast  near  to  make  the  male      [strong 

To  thy  sex  captive  ;  but  that  this  thy  lord 

(Born  to  uphold  creation  in  that  honor 

First  nature  styled2  it  hi)  shrunk  thee  into 

The  bound  thou  wast  o'erflowing  ;  at  once  subduing 

Thy  force  and  thy  affection  ;  —  soldieress, 

That  equally  canst  poise  sternness  with  pity, 

Who  now,  I  know,  hast  much  more  power  on  him 

Than  ever  he  had  on  thee ;  who  own'st  his  strength, 

And  his  love  too,  who  is  a  servant'  for 

The  tenor  of  thy  speech ;  dear  glass  of  ladies, 

Bid  him,  that  we,  whom  flaming  war  doth  scorch, 

Under  the  shadow  of  his  sword  may  cool  us  ! 

Require  him  he  advance  it  o'er  our  heads  ; 

Speak 't  in  a  woman's  key,  like  such  a  woman 

A  s  any  of  us  three ;  weep  ere  you  fail ; 

Lend  us  a  knee  ; 

But  touch  the  ground  for  us  no  longer  time 

Than  a  dove's  motion,  when  the  head's  plucked  off! 

Tell  him,  if  he  in  the  blood-sized4  field  lay  swoll'n, 

1  "  Nor  in  more  bounty  spread  her,"  is  the  old  reading. 
The  omission  equally  helps  the  sense  and  the  measure. 

*  I  should  prefer  to  read  "  staled  it  in,"  that  is,  dressed 
or  habited  in, — meaning  the  masculine  dignity  with  which 
man  was  endowed,  as  superior,  at  the  creation,  and  with 
which,  though  an  Amazon,  the  queen  of  Theseus  must  not 
conflict 

*  Servant,  attendant,  one  who  even  now  waits  to  hear 
what  you  have  to  say. 

*  Blood  stained.     Size  or  tiling,  is  a  glutinous  ground 
-employed  by  painters. 


Showing  the  sun  his  teeth,  grinning  at  the  moon, 
What  you  would  do ! 

Hip.  Poor  lady,  say  no  more  ! 

I  had  as  lief  trace  this  good  action  with  you 
As  that  whereto  I'm  going,  and  never  yet 
Went  I  so  willing  way.8  My  lord  is  taken, 
Heart  deep  with  your  distress.    Let  him  consider ; 
I'll  speak  anon. 

3  Queen.  Oh,  my  petition  was 

[Kneels  to  EMILIA. 

Set  down  in  ice,  which  by  hot  grief  uncandied 
Melts  into  drops  ;  so  sorrow  wanting  form 
Is  pressed  with  deeper  matter. 

Emi.  Pray  stand  up ; 

Your  grief  is  written  in  your  cheek. 

3  Queen.  Oh,  woe  ! 

You  cannot  read  it  there ;  here,  through  my  tears, 
Like  wrinkled  pebbles  in  a  glassy  stream, 
You  may  behold  them  !     Lady,  lady,  alack, 
He  that  will  all  the  treasure  know  o'  the  earth, 
Must  know  the  centre  too.    He  that  will  fish 
For  my  least  minnow,  let  him  lead  his  line 
To  catch  one  at  my  heart.    Oh,  pardon  me  ! 
Extremity,  that  sharpens  sundry  wits, 
Makes  me  a  fool. 

Emi.  Pray  you.  say  nothing ;  pray  you  ' 

Who  cannot  feel  nor  see  the  rain,  being  in't, 
Knows  neither  wet  nor  dry.    If  that  you  were 
The  ground-piece  of  some  painter,  I  would  buy  you 
To  instruct  me  'gainst  a  capital  grief  indeed  ; 
Such  heart-pierced  demonstration  !  —  but,  alas. 
Being  a  natural  sister  of  our  sex, 
Your  sorrow  beats  so  ardently  upon  me, 
That  it  shall  make  a  counter-reflect  'gainst 
My  brother's  heart,  and  warm  it  to  some  pity 
Though  it  were  made  of  stone ;  pray  have  good 
comfort ! 

Thes.  Forward  to  the  temple  !  leave  not  out  a  jot 
Of  the  sacred  ceremony. 

1  Queen.  Oh,  this  celebration 
Will  longer  last,  and  be  more  costly,  than 

Your  suppliants'  war !    Remember  that  your  fame 
Knolls  in  the  ear  o'  the  world.     What  you  do  quickly 
Is  not  done  rashly ;  your  first  thought  is  more 
Than  others'  labored  meditance  ;  your  premeditating 
More  than  their  actions  :  but,  (oh  Jove  ! )  your  actions, 
Soon  as  they  move,  as  ospreys  do  the  fish,5 
Subdue  before  they  touch.    Think,  dear  duke,  think 
What  beds  our  slain  kings  have  ? 

2  Qu«en.  What  griefs  our  beds, 
That  our  dear  lords  have  none  ! 

3  Quern.  None  fit  for  the  dead. 
Those  that  with  cords,  knives',  drams,6  precipitance,7 
Weary  of  this  world's  light,  have  to  themselves 
Been  death's  most  horrid  agents  ; — human  grace 
Affords  them  dust  and  shadow. 

1  Queen.  But  our  lords 

Lie  blistering  'fore  the  visitating9  sun, 
And  were  good  kings,  when  living. 

Thes.  It  is  true :  and  I  will  give  you  comfort, 
To  give  your  dead  lords  graves.    The  which  to  do, 
Must  make  some  work  with  Creon.  [doing : 

1  Queen.  And  that  work  now  presents  itself  to  the 

8  Query :  willingly  T     6  Osprey,  or  ospring.  the  sea-eagle. 
1  Dram,  in  the  sense  of  drug ;  suicide,  by  poison. 
8  This  is  usually  printed — 

"  Those  that  with  cords,  knives,  drams,  precipitance." 
We  receive  "  cords,"  &.c.,  as  genitive  cases  to  "precipitance." 
8  Query  :  vegetating  7 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II. 


17 


Now  't  will  take  form.    The  heats  are  gone  to-mor- 
Then  bootless  toil  must  recompense  itself         [row  ; 
With  its  own  sweat.    Now,  he's  secure, 
Nor  dreams  we  stand  before  your  puissance, 
Rinsing  your  holy  begging  in  our  eyes, 
To  make  petition  clear. 

2  Queen.  Now  you  may  take  him, 
Drunk  with  his  victory.1 

3  Queen.  And  his  army  full 
Of  bread  and  sloth.1 

Thts.  Ariesius,  that  best  know'st 

How  to  draw  out,  fit  to  this  enterprise 
The  prim'st  for  this  proceeding,  and  the  number 
To  carry  such  a  business ;  forth  and  levy 
Our  worthiest  instruments,  whilst  we  despatch 
This  grand  act  of  our  We,  this  daring  deed 
Of  fate  in  wedlock ! 

1  Queen.  Dowagers,  take  hands  ! 
Let  us  be  widows  to  our  woes  !     Delay 
Commends  us  to  a  famishing  hope. 

All.  Farewell ! 

2  Queen.  We  come  unseasonably ;  but  when  could 

grief 

Cull  forth,  as  unpanged  judgment  can,  fitt'st  time 
For  best  solicitation  ? 

Thes.  Why,  good  ladies, 

This  is  a  service  whereto  I  am  going, 
Greater  than  any  war  ;l  it  more  imports  me 
Than  all  the  actions  that  I  have  foregone, 
Or  futurely  can  cope. 

1  Queen.  The  more  proclaiming 

Our  suit  shall  be  neglected,  when  her  arms, 
Able  to  lock  Jove  from  a  synod,  shall 
By  warranting  moonlight  corslet  thee.    Oh,  when 
Her  twinning3  cherries  shall  their  sweetness  fall4 
Upon  thy  tasteful  lips,  what  wilt  thou  think 
Of  rotten  kings,  or  blubbered5  queens  ?  what  care 
For  what  thou  feel'st  not, — what  thou  feel'st  being 

able 

To  make  Mars  spurn  his  drum  ?    Oh,  if  thou  couch 
But  one  night  with  her,  every  hour  in't  will 
Take  hostage  of  thee  for  a  hundred,  and 
Thou  shall  remember  nothing  more  than  what 
That  banquet  bids  thee  to. 

Hip.  Though  much  I  like8 

You  should  be  so  transported,  as  much  sorry 
I  should  be  such  a  suitor ;  yet  I  think 
Did  I  not,  by  the  abstaining  of  my  joy, 
Which  breeds  a  deeper  longing,  cure  their  surfeit, 
That  craves  a  present  medicine,  I  should  pluck 
All  ladies'  scandal  on  me :  therefore,  sir, 
As  I  shall  here  make  trial  of  my  prayers, 
Either  presuming  them  to  have  some  force, 
Or  seeing1''  for  aye  their  vigor  dumb,  prorogue 

1  See  the  speech  in  Hamlet,  where  Hamlet,  forbearing  tc 
slay  the  king  at  his  prayers,  proposes  to  take  him  "  when  h 
is  drunk,"  &c.,  as  his  father  had  been  taken  "  when  full  o 
bread,"  &c. 

2  War.    The  early  copies,  was. 

3  Other  copies  read  twining.    Twinned,  is  the  prope 
word. 

*  Fall — an  active  verb. 

6  Weeping. 

6  In  former  editions,  "  Though  much  unlike,"  &c.  She  ad 
dresses  Theseus,  and  means  to  say,  though  it  pleases  her,  hi 
passion,  and  though  it  makes  her  sorry  to  have  such 
painful  visit  to  him,  yet  she  is  compelled  to  join  with  th 
suitors,  even  to  the  delay  of  her  own  happiness.  As  it  for 
merly  read,  the  sense  was  wanting. 

1  "  Sentencing  for  aye,"  ia  the  language  of  former  cop 
ies. 


This  business  we  are  going  about,  and  hang 
four  shield  afore  your  heart,  about  that  neck 
Which  is  my  fee,  and  which  I  freely  lend 
'o  do  these  poor  queens  service  ! 

All  Queens.  Oh,  help  now ! 

ur  cause  cries  for  your  knee.  [To  EMILIA. 

End.  If  you  grant  not 

ly  sister  her  petition,  in  that  force, 
iVith  that  celerity  and  nature,  which 
he  makes  it  in,  from  henceforth  I'll  not  dare 
'o  ask  you  anything,  nor  be  so  hardy 
2ver  to  take  a  husband. 

Thes.  Pray  stand  up ! 

am  entreating  of  myself  to  do 
That  which  you  kneel  to  have  me.    Perithous, 
pead  on  the  bride  !    Get  you  and  pray  the  gods 
'or  success  and  return ;  omit  not  anything 
n  the  pretended  celebration.    Queens, 
bllow  your  soldier,  as  before.    Hence  you, 
And  at  the  banks  of  Aulis  meet  us  with 
The  forces  yon  can  raise,  where  we  shall  find 
The  moiety  of  a  number,  for  a  business 
More  bigger  looked  ! — Since  that  our  theme  is  haste, 

stamp  this  kiss  upon  thy  currant  lip. 

weet,  keep  it  as  my  token  !    Set  you  forward  ; 
?or  I  will  see  you  gone. 

f  Exeunt  toward  the  Temple. 

'are  well,  my  beauteous  sister !    Perithous. 
Jeep  the  feast  full ;  bate  not  an  hour  on 't ! 

Per.  Sir, 

I'll  follow  you  at  heels ;  the  feast's  solemnity 
Shall  want8  till  your  return. 

Thes.  Cousin,  I  charge  you 

Budge  not  from  Athens ;  we  shall  be  returning 
Ere  you  can  end  this  feast,  of  which  I  pray  you, 
Make  no  abatement.    Once  more,  farewell  all. 

1  Queen.  Thus  dost  thou  still  make  good  the  tongue 

o'  the  world. 

2  Queen.  And  earn'st  a  deity  equal  with  Mars. 

3  Queen.  If  not  above  him  ;  for, 

Thou,  being  but  mortal,  mak'st  affections  bend 
To. godlike  honors  ;  they  themselves,  some  say, 
Groan  under  such  a  mastery. 

Thes.  As  we  are  men, 

Thus  should  we  do ;  being  sensually  subdued, 
We  lose  our  humane  title.    Good  cheer,  ladies ! 

[Flourish. 
Now  turn  we  toward  your  comforts.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  PALAMOH  and  ARCITE. 
Arc.  Dear  Palamon,  dearer  in  love  than  blood, 
And  our  prime  cousin,  yet  unhardened  in 
The  crimes  of  nature  ;  let  us  leave  the  city, 
Thebes,  and  the  temptings  in't,  before  we  further 
Sully  our  gloss  of  youth ! 
And  here  to  keep  in  abstinence  wcre^  shame 
As  in  incontinence  :  for  not  to  swim 
In  the  aid  of  the  current,  were  almost  to  sink  ; 
At  least  to  frustrate  striving  ;  and  to  follow 
The  common  stream,  'twould  bring  us  to  an  eddy 
Where  we  should  turn  or  drown  ;  if  labored10  through, 
Our  gain  but  life  and  weakness. 

8  Query:  wait? 

9  "  We  shame,"  in  former  copies. 

10  "  Labor  through,"  ia  the  old  reading. 


18 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


Pal.  Your  advice 

Is  cried  up  with  examples.    What  strange  ruins, 
Since  first  we  went  to  school,  may  we  perceive 
Walking  in  Thebes  !     Scars,  and  bare  weeds, 
The  gain  o'  the  martialist,  who  did  propound 
To  his  bold  ends,  honor  and  golden  ingots, 
Which,  though  he  won,  he  had  not ;  and  now  flurted1 
By  peace,  for  whom  he  fought, — who  then  shall  offer 
To  Mars's  so-scorned  altar  ?     I  do  bleed 
When  such  I  meet,  and  wish  great  Juno  would 
Resume  her  ancient  fit  of  jealousy, 
To  get  the  soldier  work ;  that  peace  might  purge 
For  her  repletion,  and  retain  anew 
Her  charitable  heart,  now  hard,  and  harsher 
Than  strife  or  war  could  be. 

Are.  Are  you  not  out  ? 

Meet  you  no  ruin  but  the  soldier  in 
The  cranks  and  turns  of  Thebes  ?    You  did  begin 
As  if  you  met  decays  of  many  kinds : 
Perceive  you  none  that  do  arouse  your  pity, 
But  th'  unconsidered  soldier  ? 

Pal.  Yes  ;  I  pity 

Decays  where'er  I  find  them  ;  but  such  most, 
That,  sweating  in  an  honorable  toil, 
Are  paid  with  ice  to  cool  'em. 

Arc.  'Tis  not  this 

I  did  begin  to  speak  of;  this  is  virtue 
Of  no  respect  in  Thebes.    I  spake  of  Thebes, 
How  dangerous,  if  we  will  keep  our  honors, 
ft  is  for  our  residing ;  where  every  evil 
Hath  a  good  color ;  where  every  seeming  good's 
A  certain  evil ;  where  not  to  be  even  jump3 
As  they  are  here,  were  to  be  strangers,  and 
Such  things  to  be  mere  monsters. 

Pal.  It  is  in  our  power, — 

Unless' we  fear  that  apes  can  tutor  us — to 
Be  masters  of  our  manners.    What  need  I 
Affect  another's  gait,  which  is  not  catching 
Where  there  is  faith?  or  to  be  fond  upon 
Another's  way  of  speech,  when,  by  mine  own, 
I  may  be  reasonably  conceived, — saved  too, 
Speaking  it  truly  ?    Why  am  I  bound, 
By  any  generous  bond,  to  follow  him 
Follows  his  tailor — haply  so  long,  until 
The  followed  make  pursuit .'    Or,  let  me  know, 
Why  mine  own  barber  is  unblessed  with  him  ; 
My  poor  chin  too,  for  'tis  not  scissored  just 
To  such  a  favorite's  glass  ?    What  canon's  there 
That  does  command  my  rapier  from  my  hip, 
To  dangle  't  in  my  hand  ;  or  to  go  tiptoe         . 
Before  the  street  be  foul  ?    Either  I  am 
The  fore-horse  in  the  team,  or  I  am  none 
That  draw  i'  the  sequent  trace  !    These  poor  slight 

sores 

Need  not  a  plantain  ;  that  which  rips  my  bosom 
Almost  to  the  heart's — 

Arc.  Our  uncle  Creon. 

Pal.  He  !— 

A  most  unbounded  tyrant,  whose  successes 
Make  Heaven  unfeared,  and  villany  assured, 
Beyond  its  power  there's  nothing ; — almost  puts3 

1  Flurt — to  snap  the  fingers  derisively.     We  may  read 
flouted. 

*  Jump— just— exactly. 
3  This  passage  is  ordinarily  printed : — 
"  A  most  unbounded  tyrant,  whose  sucfesset 
Make  Heaven  unfeared,  and  villany  assured, 
Beyond  its  power ;  there's  nothing  almost  puts,"  <fcc. 
Seward  suggested  the  punctuation  which  we  have  adopted, 


Faith  in  a  fever,4  and  deifies  alone 
Voluble  chance — who  only  attributes 
The  faculties  of  other  instruments 
To  his  own  nerves  and  act  commands  men's  seme* 
And  what  they  win  in't,  boot  and  glory  too — 
That  fears  not  to  do  harm — good  dares  not — let 
The  blood  of  mine  thats  sib8  to  him  be  sucked 
From  me  with  leeches :  let  them  break  and  fall 
Off  me  with  that  corruption  ! 

Arc.  Clear-spirited  cousin, 

Let's  leave  his  court,  that  we  may  nothing  share 
Of  his  loud  infamy  !  for  [still]  our  milk 
Will  relish  of  the  pasture,  and  we  must 
Be  vile  or  disobedient ;  not  his  kinsmen 
In  blood,  unless  in  quality. 

Pal.  Nothing  truer  ! 

I  think  the  echoes  of  his  shames  have  deafed 
The  ears  of  heav'nly  justice  :  widows'  cries 
Descend  again  into  their  throats,  and  have  not 
Due  audience  of  the  gods. — Valerius  ! 

Enter  VALERIUS. 

Vol.  The  king  calls  for  you  ;  yet  be  leaden-footed 
Till  his  great  rage  be  off  him  !     Phoebus,  when 
He  broke  his  whipstock,  and  exclaimed  against 
The  horses  of  the  sun,  but  whispered  to 
The  loudness  of  his  fury. 

Pal.  Small  winds  shake  him 

But  what's  the  matter  ? 

Vol.  Theseus  (who  where  he  threats  appals)  hath 
Deadly  defiance  to  him,  and  pronounces  [sent 

Ruin  to  Thebes  ;  who  is  at  hand  to  seal 
The  promise  of  his  wrath. 

Arc.  Let  him  approach  . 

But  that  we  fear  the  gods  in  him,  he  brings  not 
A  jot  of  terror  to  us.    Yet  what  man 
Thirds  his  own  worth  (the  case  is  each  of  ours) 
When  'that  his  action's  dregged  with  mind  assured 
'Tis  bad  he  goes  about  ? 

Pal.  Leave  that  unreasoned  ! 

Our  services  stand  now  for  Thebes,  not  Creon. 
Yet,  to  be  neutral  to  him,  were  dishonor, 
Rebellious  to  oppose  ;  therefore,  we  must, 
With  him,  stand  to  the  mercy  of  our  fate, 
•Who  hath  bounded  our  last  minute. 

Arc.  So  we  must. 

Is't  said  this  war's  afoot  ?  or  it  shall  be, 
On  fail  of  some  condition  ? 

Vol.  'Tis  in  motion  ; 

The  intelligence  of  state  came  in  the  instant 
With  the  defier. 

Pal.  Let's  to  the  king  !    6Were  he 

A  quarter  carrier  of  that  honor  which 
His  enemy  comes  in,  the  blood  we  venture 

in  the  third  line  ;  but  by  leaving  the  plural  nominative  suc- 
cesses he  left  the  remainder  of  the  sentence  unintelligible — 
at  least  to  modern  readers,  who  require  strict  grammatical 
construction.* 

*  Thus  Mr.  Knight  I  prefer  to  restore  successes,  as  essen- 
tial to  the  rhythm,  and,  by  the  omission  of  the  letter  *  from 
makes,  in  the  next  line,  to  repair  the  grammatical  hurt* 
which  are  complained  of.  I  have  also  changed  the  punctu- 
ation; though  the  last  three  lines,  which  I  have  left  un- 
touched, are  still  very  obscure,  and  are  susceptible  of  im- 
provement 

4  Theobald  reads  it  "  faith  in  a  fear,"  and  I  think  with  great 
propriety, — to  the  manifest  improvement  of  the  verse,  and 
to  the  equally  evident  elevation  of  the  sense. 

6  Sib— kin. 

6  Previous  editions  read,  "  Who  were  he,"  thus  rendering 
the  line  unmusical,  without  helping  the  sense. 


ACT  L— SCENE  III. 


19 


Should  be  as  for  our  health  ;  which  were  not  spent ; 
Rather  laid  out  for  purchase.     But  alas, 
Our  hands  advanced  before  our  hearts,  what1  will 
The  fall  o'  the  stroke  do  damage  ? 

Arc.  Let  th'  event, 

That  never-erring  arbitrator,  tell  us 
When  we  know  all  ourselves  ;  and  let  us  follow 
The  becking2  of  our  chance  !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 
Enter  PERITHOHS,  HIPPOLYTA,  and  EMILIA. 

Per.  No  further  ! 

Hip.  Sir,  farewell !    Repeat  my  wishes 

To  our  great  lord,  of  whose  success  I  dare  not 
Make  any  timorous  question  ;  yet  I  wish  him 
Excess  and  overflow  of  power,  an't  might  be, 
To  dure3  ill-dealing  fortune.    Speed  to  him  ! 
Store  never  hurts  good  governors. 

Per.  Though  I  know 

His  ocean  needs  not  my  poor  drops,  yet  they 
Must  yield  their  tribute  there.    My  precious  maid, 
Those  best  affections  that  the  Heavens  infuse 
In  their  best-tempered  pieces,  keep  enthroned 
In  your  dear  heart ! 

Emi.  Thanks,  sir  !    Remember  me 

To  our  all-royal  brother  !  for  whose  speed 
The  great  Bellona  I'll  solicit :  and 
Since,  in  our  terrene  state  petitions  are  not 
Without  gifts  understood,  I'll  offer  to  her 
What  I  shall  be  advised  she  likes.    Our  hearts 
Are  in  his  army,  in  his  tent ! 

Hip.  In  's  bosom  ! 

We  have  been  soldiers,  and  we  cannot  weep 
When  our  friends  don  then*  helms,  or  put  to  sea, 
Or  tell  of  babes  broached  on  the  lance,  or  women 
That  have  sod  their  infants  in  (and  after  eat  them) 
The  brine  they  wept  at  killing  'em  ;  then  if 
You  stay  to  see  of  us  such  spinsters,  we 
Should  hold  you  here  for  ever. 

Per.  Peace  be  to  you, 

As  I  pursue  this  war  !  which  shall  be  then 
Beyond  further  requiring.  [Exit. 

Emi.  How  his  longing 

Follows  his  friend !      Since  his  depart,  his  sports, 
Though  craving  seriousness  and  skill,  past  slightly 
His  careless  execution,  where  nor  gain 
Made  him  regard,  or  loss  consider  ;  but 
Playing4  one5  business  in  his  hand,  another 
Directing  in  his  head,  his  mind  nurse  equal 
To  these  so  diff'ring  twins  !    Have  you  observed  him 
Since  our  great  lord  departed  ? 

Hip.  With  much  labor, 

And  I  did  love  him  for't.    They  two  have  cabined 
In  many  as  dangerous,  as  poor  a  corner ; 
Peril  and  want  contending  ;  they  have  skiffed 
Torrents,  whose  roaring  tyranny  and  power 
I'  th'  least  of  these  was  dreadful ;  and  they  have 
Fought  out  together,  where  death's  self  was  lodged; 
Yet  fate  hath  brought  them  off.    Their  knot  of  love 
Tied,  weaved,  entangled,  with  so  true,  so  long, 
And  with  a  finger  of  so  deep  a  cunning, 

1  How  will. 

«  Qu. :     Beckon'!  or  beckoning? 

3  Dure.    So  the  original,  for  endure.    Some  read  cure  ; 
others,  dare. 

*  Should  not  plying  be  the  word  instead  of  playing  ? 
6  One  is  suggested  by  M.  Mason.    The  original  has  ore. 


May  be  outworn,  never  undone.    I  think 
Theseus  can  not  be  umpire  to  himself, 
Cleaving  his  conscience  into  twain,  and  doing 
Each  side  like  justice,  which  he  loves  best. 

Emi.  Doubtless, 

There  is  a  best,  and  Reason  has  no  manners 
To  say  it  is  not  you.     I  was  acquainted 
Once  with  a  time,  when  I  enjoyed  a  playfellow  ; 
You  were  at  wars  when  she  the  grave  enriched, 
Who  made  too  proud  the  bed; — took  leave  o'  th' 

moon 

(Which  then  looked  pale  at  parting)  when  our  count 
Was  each  eleven. 

Hip.  'Twas  Flavina. 

Emi.  Yes. 

You  talk  of  Perithous  and  Theseus'  love : 
Theirs  has  more  ground,  is  more  maturely  seasoned, 
More  buckled  with  strong  judgment,  and  their  needs 
The  one  of  th'  other  may  be  said  to  water 
Their  intertangled  roots  of  love  ;  but  I 
And  she  (I  sighed  and  spoke  of)  were  things  inno- 
Loved,  for  we  did,  and,  like  the  elements     [cent ; 
That  know  not  what,  nor  why,  yet  do  affect 
Rare  issues  by  their  operance, — our  souls 
Did  so  to  one  another.    What  she  liked, 
Was  then  of  me  approved  ;  what  not,  condemned  ; 
No  more  arraignment.     The  flower  that  I   would 

pluck 

And  put  between  my  breasts  (oh,  then  but  begin- 
ning 

To  swell  about  the  blossom)  she  would  long 
Till  she  had  such  another,  and  commit  it 
To  the  like  innocent  cradle,  where  phoenix-like 
They  died  in  perfume.    On  my  head  no  toy 
But  was  her  pattern  ;  her  affections6  (pretty, 
Though  happily  her  careless  wear)  I  followed 
For  my  most  serious  decking.    Had  mine  ear 
Stolen  some  new  air,  or  at  adventure  hummed  one 
From  musical  coinage,  why,  it  was  a  note 
Whereon  her  spirits  would  sojourn  (rather  dwell  on) 
And  sing  it  in  her  slumbers  ;  this  rehearsal, 
Which  every  innocent  wots  well,  comes  in, 
Like  old  importment's  bastard,  has  this  end, 
That  the  true  love  'tween  maid  and  maid  may  be 
More  than  in  sex  dividual. 

Hip.  You're  out  of  breath ; 

And  this  high  speeded  pace  is  but  to  say, 
That  you  shall  never,  like  the  maid  Flavina, 
Love  any  that's  called  man. 

Emi.  I  am  sure  I  shall  not. 

Hip.  Now,  alack,  weak  sister, 
I  must  no  more  believe  thee  in  this  point 
(Though  in't  I  know  thou  dost  believe  thyself) 
Than  I  will  trust  a  sickly  appetite, 
That  loaths  even  as  it  longs.    But  sure,  my  sister, 
If  I  were  ripe  for  your  persuasion,  you 
Have  said  enough  to  shake  me  from  the  arm 
Of  the  all-noble  Theseus  ;  for  whose  fortunes' 
I  will  now  hi  and  kneel,  with  great  assurance, 
That  we,  more  than  his  Perithous,  possess 
The  high  throne  in  his  heart. 

Emi.  I  am  not 

Against  your  faith  ;  yet  I  continue  mine.      [Exeunt. 

8  Affections — what  she  affected — liked.* 

*  Affections  in  the  sense  of  affectations, — but  pretty  ones, 
and  so  gracefully  and  happily  worn  as  to  prompt  my  serioua 
imitation. 


20 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


SCENE  IV. 

A  battle  struck  within  ;  then  a  retreat ;  flourish.  Then 
enter  THESEUS,  victor ;  the  three  Queens  meet  him, 
and  fall  on  their  faces  before  him. 

1  Queen.    To  thee  no  star  be  dark  ! 

2  Queen.  Both  Heaven  and  earth 
'Friend  theo  for  ever  ! 

3  Queen.  All  the  good  that  may 
Be  w  ished  upon  thy  head,  I  cry  "  amen"  to't ! 

Thes.  Th'  impartial  gods,  who,  from  the  mounted 

heavens, 

View  us,  their  mortal  herd,  behold  who  err, 
And  in  their  time  chastise.    Go  and  find  out 
The  bones  of  your  dead  lords,  and  honor  them 
With  triple  ceremony  !     Rather  than  a  gap 
Should  be  in  their  dear  rites,  we  would  supply't. 
But  those  we  will  depute  which  shall  invest 
You  in  your  dignities,  and  even1  each  thing 
Our  haste  does  leave  imperfect :  so  adieu, 
And  Heaven's  good  eyes  look  on  you  !  —  What  are 
those  ?2  [Exeunt  Queens. 

Herald.  Men  of  great  quality,  as  may  be  judged 
By  their  appointment ;  some  of  Thebes  have  told  us 
They  are  sisters'  children,  nephews  to  the  king. 

Thes.  By  the  helm  of  Mars,  I  saw  them  in  the  war, 
Like  to  a  pair  of  lions,  smeared  with  prey, 
Make  lanes  in  troops  aghast.    I  fixed  my  note 
Constantly  on  them ;  for  they  were  a  mark          [me, 
Worth  a  god's  view  !     What  prisoner  was't  that  told 
When  I  inquired  their  names  ? 

Herald.  With  leave,  they're  called 

Arcite  and  Palamon. 

Thes.  'Tis  right ;  those,  those. 

They  are  not  dead? 

Herald.  Nor  in  a  state  of  life.     Had  they  been 

taken  . 

When  their  last  hurts  were  given,  'tis  possible 
They  might  have  been  recovered ;  yet  they  breathe, 
And  have  the  name  of  men. 

Thes.  Then  like  men  use  'em  ! 

The  very  lees  of  such,  millions  of  rates 
Exceed  the  wine  of  others.     All  our  surgeons 
Convent1  in  their  behoof;  our  richest  balms, 
Rather  than  niggard,  waste  !     Their  lives  concern  us 
Much  more  than  Thebes  is  worth.    Rather  than  have 

them 

Freed  of  this  plight,  and  in  their  morning  state, 
Sound  and  at  liberty,  I  would  them  dead  ; 
But,  forty  thousand  fold,  we  had  rather  have  them 
Prisoners  to  us  than  death.     Bear  'em  [in]  speedily 
From  our  kind  air  (to  them  unkind),  and  minister 
What  man  to  man  may  do  !  —  for  our  sake  more  ! 
Since  I  have  known  frights,  fury,  friends'  behests, 
Love's  provocations,  zeal,  a  mistress'  task, 
Desire  of  liberty,  a  fever,  madness, 
Hath  set  a  mirk  which  Nature  could  not  reach  to 
Without  some  imposition — sickness  in  will 
Or  wrestling  strength  in  reason  for  our  love 
And  great  Apollo's  mercy  —  all  our  best 
Their  best  skill  tender  !  —  Lead  into  the  city: 
Where,  having  bound  things  scattered,  we  will  post 
To  Athens  'fore  our  army.  [Exeunt. 

1  Even — make  even. 

*  Here  we  are  to  suppose  the  bodies  of  the  wounded  Ar- 
cite  and  Pnlamon  to  l>e  home  alon». 
^  Convent  for  convene,  assemble. 


SCENE  V. 

Enter  the  Queens  with  the  hearses  of  their  Kings,  in  a 

funeral  solemnity,  t(C. 
Ums  and  odors  bring  away, 
Vapors,  sighs,  darken  the  day ! 
Our  dole  more  deadly  looks  than  dying  ! 
Balms,  and  gums,  and  heavy  cheers, 
Sacred  vials  filled  with  tears, 
And  clamors  through  the  wild  air  flying : 
Come,  all  sad  and  solemn  shows, 
That  are  quick-eyed  Pleasure's  foes  ! 
We  convent  naught  else  but  woes. 
We  convent,  &c. 

3  Queen.  This  funeral  path  brings  to  your  house- 
hold's grave  :4 
Joy  seize  on  you  again  !    Peace  sleep  with  him  ! 

2  Queen.  And  this  to  yours  ! 

J  Queen.  Yours  this  way  !  Heavens  lend 

A  thousand  differing  ways  to  one  sure  end  ! 

3  Queen.   This  world's  a    city,  full  of  straying 

streets ; 

And  death's  the  market-place,  where  each  one  meets. 

Exeunt  severally. 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. 

Enter  GAOLER  and  WOOER. 

Gaoler.  I  may  depart2  with  little  while  I  live  , 
Something  I  may  cast  to  you,  not  much  :    Alas  ! 
The  prison  I  keep,  although  it  be  for  great  ones, 
They  seldom  come.    Before  one  salmon,  you 
Shall  take  a  number  of  minnows.    I'm  given  out 
To  be  better  lined  than  't  can  appear  to  me 
Report  is  a  true  speaker.    I  would  I  were. 
Really,  that  I  am  delivered  to  be. 
Marry  [but]  what  I  have  —  be't  what  it  will  — 
I  will  assure  upon  my  daughter  at 
The  day  o'  my  death. 

Wooer.  Sir,  I  demand  no  more 

Than  your  own  offer  ;  and  I  will  estate 
Your  daughter  in  what  I've  promised. 

Gaoler.  Well ! 

We'll  talk  more  of  this  when  the  solemnity 
Is  past :  but  have  you  a  full  promise  of  her? 
When  that  shall  be  seen,  I  tender  my  consent. 

Wooer.     I  have,  sir  ;  —  here  she  comes. 
Enter  DAUGHTER. 

Gaoler.  Your  friend  and  I 

Have  chanced  to  name  you  here  on  the  old  business  ; 
But  no  more  of  that  now  !  Soon  as  the  court-hurry 
Is  over,  we  will  make  an  end  of  it. 
I'  the  meantime  look  to  the  two  prisoners, 
Tenderly  ;— I  can  tell  you  they  are  princes. 

Daughter.  These  strewings  for  their  chamber.    It 

is  pity 

They  are  in  prison,  and  [yet]  'twere  pity  that 
They  should  be  out.    I  do  think  they've  patience 

*  Houtehnld"s  grave.     So  the  quarto.     The  ordinary  read- 
ing is  household  graves.     Each  kins  had  one  crave.* 

*  So  Mr.  Knight ; — and  yet  the  "  household  graves"  were 
those  of  the  family.    The"p'»ral  seems  to  me  the  more  an- 
tique  and  the  more  IceriHmate  readinff.    It  affords  that  free- 
dom from  the  literal  which  poetry  most  prefers. 

5  Depart  with— port  with. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  II. 


21 


To  make  adversity  ashamed.  The  prison, 
Itself,  is  proud  of  them  ;  and  they  have  all 
The  world  in  their  chamber. 

Gaoler.  They  are  famed  to  be 

A  pair  of  absolute  men. 

Daughter.  By  my  troth  I  think 

[That]   Fame  but  stammers  them.     They  stand  a 
Above  the  reach  of  report.  [grees1 

Gaoler.  I  have  heard  them 

Reported,  in  the  battle,  to  have  been 
The  only  doers. 

Daughter.          Ay,2  mostjikely, 
For  they  are  noble  sufferers.    I  marvel  how 
They  would  have  looked,  had  they  been  victors,  that 
With  such  a  constant  nobleness3  enforce. 
A  freedom  out  of  bondage,  making  [of]  misery 
Their  mirth,  and  [of]  affliction  [but]  a  toy 
To  jest  at. 

Gaoler.  Do  they  so  ? 

Daughter.  It  seems  to  me, 

They've  no  more  sense  of  their  captivity, 
Than  I  of  ruling  Athens.    They  eat  well, 
Look  merrily,  discourse  of  many  things, 
But  nothing  of  their  own  straits4  and  disaster; 
Yet.  sometimes,  a  divided  sigh,  martyred, 
As  'twere  in  the  deliverance,  will  break 
From  one  of  them ;  when  t'  other,  presently, 
Gives  it  so  sweet5  rebuke,  that  I  could  wish 
Myself  a  sigh  to  be  so  chid,  or  at  least, 
A  sigher  to  be  comforted. 

Wooer.  I  ne'er  saw  'em. 

Gaoler.  The  duke  himself  comes  private6  in  the 
And  so  did  they  ;  [but]  what  the  reason  of  it,  [night, 
I  knnw  not. — Look  [you]  yonder  [where]  they  are  ! 
That's  Arcite  [that]  looks  out. 

Enter  PALAMON  and  ARCITE  above. 
Daughter.  No,  sir,  that's  Palamon : 

Arcite's  the  lower  of  the  twain.     You  may 
Perceive  a  part  of  him. 

Gaoler.  Go  to, — leave6  pointing  ! 

They'd  not  make  us  their  object.    Out  of7  sight. 

Daughter.  It  is  a  holiday  to  look  on  them  ! 
Lord,  Lord  !  the  difference  of  men.s  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 
Enter  PALAMON  and  ARCITE,  in  prison* 

Pal.  How  do  you,  noble  cousin  ? 

Arc.  How  do  you,  sir  ! 

Pal   Why,  strong  enough  to  laugh  at  misery, 

1  Greet — Seward  reads  "  grief"  and  Mr.  Knight  follows 
him.     Green,  or  grese,  means  steps  or  stairs,  and  may  mean 
decrrees.  Either  of  these  makes  sense  of  the  passage,  which 
gri'f  does  not. 

2  Previous  editions  read  "  nay."    The  sense  of  the  speech 
requires  the  alteration. 

3  Previous  copies  read,  "  nobility." 

<  Former  copies  read,  "  restraints." 
6  "  ?o  sweet  n  rebuke."  elsewhere. 
6  "  Privately,"  in  Knight  and  Scward's  edition. 

J  O^ySffSSf1}  ^ese  omissions,  which  do  not 
affect  the  sense,  are  demanded  by  the  verse.  The  whole 
ecene  which  Mr.  Knight  prints  as  prose  is  in  the  usual  dra- 
matic blank  verse,  and  is  so  printed  by  Mr.  ?eward.  I  have 
thrown  in,  here  and  there,  a  particle  or  preposition,  where 
the  measure  seemed  to  require  it 

9  The  position  of  Palamon  and  Arcite  in  the  prison,  with 
the  power  of  observing  what  passes  in  the  garden  when 
Emilia  enters,  implies  a  double  action  which  requires  the 
employment  of  the  secondary  stage.  See  Othello,  Act  v. 


And  bear  the  chance  of  war  yet.    We  are  prisoners 
t  fear  for  ever,  cousin. 

Arc.  I  believe  it ; 

And  to  that  destiny  have  patiently 
Laid  up  my  hour  to  come. 

Pal.  Oh,  cousin  Arcite, 

Where  is  Thebes  now  ?  where  is  our  noble  country  ? 
Where  are  our  friends  and  kindred  ?     Never  more 
Must  we  behold  those  comforts  ;  never  [more]  sec 
The  hardy  youths  strive  for  the  games  of  honor, 
Hung  with  the  painted  favors  of  their  ladies, 
Like  tall  ships  under  sail ;  then  start  amongst  'em. 
And,  as  an  east  wind,  leave  'em  all  behind  us 
Like  lazy  clouds,  whilst  Palamon  and  Arcite, 
Even  in  the  wagging  of  a  wanton  leg, 
Out-strip  the  people's  praises,  win  the  garlands, 
Ere  they  have  time  to  wish  'em  ours.    Oh,  never 
Shall  we  two  exercise,  like  twins  of  honor, 
Our  arms  again,  and  feel  our  fiery  horses, 
Like  proud  seas  under  us  !     Our  good  swords  now, 
(Better  the  red-eyed  god  of  war  ne'er  wore) 
Ravished  our  sides,  like  age,  must  run  to  rust, 
And  deck  the  temples  of  those  gods  that  hate  us. 
These  hands  shall  never  draw  them  out  like  lightning, 
To  blast  whole  armies  more  ! 

Arc.  No,  Palamon, 

These  hopes  are  prisoners  with  us :  here  we  are, 
And  here  the  graces  of  our  youths  must  wither, 
Like  a  too  timely  spring.     Here  age  must  find  us, 
And,  which  is  heaviest.  Palamon  unmarried. 
The  sweet  embraces  of  a  loving  wife, 
Laden  with  kisses,  armed  with  thousand  Cupids, 
Shall  never  clasp  our  necks  !  no  issue  know  us  ; 
No  figures  of  ourselves  shall  we  e'er  see, 
To  glad  our  age,  and  like  young  eagles  teach  them 
Boldly  to  gaze  against  bright  arms,  and  say, 
Remember  what  your  fathers  were,  and  conquer  ! 
The  fair-eyed  maids  shall  weep  our  banishment, 
And,  in  their  songs,  curse  ever-blinded  Fortune, 
Till  she  for  shame  see  what  a  wrong  she  has  done 
To  youth  and  nature.    This  is  all  our  world  ; 
We  shall  know  nothing  here,  but  one  another; 
Hear  nothing  but  the  clock  that  tells  our  woes  ; 
The  vine  shall  grow,  but  we  shall  never  see  it ; 
Summer  shall  come,  and  with  her  .all  delights, 
But  dead-cold  winter  must  inhabit  here  ! 

Pal.  'Tis  too  true,  Arcite  !    To  our  Theban  hounds, 
That  shook  the  aged  forest  with  their  echoes, 
No  more  now  must  we  halloo  ;  no  more  shake 
Our  pointed  javelins,  whilst  the  angry  swine 
Flies  like  a  Parthian  quiver  from  our  rages, 
Struck  with  our  well-steeled  darts  !     All  valiant  uses 
(The  food  and  nourishment  of  noble  minds) 
In  us  two,  here  shall  perish  ;  we  shall  die, 
(Which  is  the  curse  of  honor  !)  lazily,10 
Children  of  grief  and  ignorance. 

Arc.  Yet,  cousin, 

Even  from  the  bottom  of  these  miseries, 
From  all  that  fortune  can  inflict  upon  us, 
I  see  two  comforts  rising,  two  mere11  blessings, 

10  Mr.  Knight,  following  the  old  copy,  has  "  lastly" — a  word 
without  significance  in  this  connexion.    I  follow  the  reading 
of  Mr.  Seward.     Sloth,  laziness,  and  not  death,  is  here  meant 
by  "  the  curse  of  honor." 

11  Mere—  absolute. — So  Mr.  Knight.     "  Mere"  is  certainly 
used  by  the  old  writers  in  the  sense  of  absolute  ;  but  I  half 
incline  to  think  that  the  proper  word  is  new,  which  might 
well  be  converted  into  "  mere"  by  the  printer.    More  would 
answer  better  than  mere. 


•22 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


If  the  gods  please  to  hold  here ;  —  a  brave  patience, 

And  the  enjoying  of  our  griefs  together. 

Whilst  Palamon  is  with  me,  let  me  perish 

If  I  think  this  our  prison. 
Pal.  Certainly, 

Tis  a  main  goodness,  cousin,  that  our  fortunes 

Were  twinned  together  :  'tis  most  true,  two  souls 

Put  in  two  noble  bodies,  let  them  suffer 

The  gall  of  hazard,  so  they  grow  together, 

Will  never  sink  ;  they  must  not  say  they  could  j1 

A  willing  man  dies  sleeping,  and  all's  done. 
Arc    Shall  we  make  worthy  uses  of  this  place, 

That  all  men  hate  so  much  ? 
Pal.  How,  gentle  cousin  ? 

Arc.  Let's  think  this  prison  holy  sanctuary, 

To  keep  us  from  corruption  of  worse  men  ! 

We  are  young,  and  yet  desire  the  ways  of  honor, 

That  liberty  and  common  conversation, 

The  poison  of  pure  spirits,  might,  like  women, 

Woo  us  to  wander  from.    What  worthy  blessing 

Can  be,  but  our  imaginations 

May  make  it  ours  ?     And  here  being  thus  together, 

We  are  an  endless  mine  to  one  another ; 

We  are  one  another's  wife,  ever  begetting        [ance  ; 

New  births  of  love  ;  we  are  father,  friends,  acquaint- 

We  are,  in  one  another,  families  ; 

I  am  your  heir,  and  you  are  mine ;  this  place 

Is  our  inheritance ;  no  hard  oppressor 

Dare  take  this  from  us  ;  here,  with  a  little  patience, 

We  shall  live  long,  and  loving ;  no  surfeits  seek  us ; 

The  hand  of  war  hurt  none  here,  nor  the  seas 

Swallow  their  youth.    Were  we  at  liberty, 
A  wife  might  part  us  lawfully,  or  business  ; 

Quarrels  consume  us  ;  envy  of  ill  men 

Crave-  our  acquaintance.    I  might  sicken,  cousin, 
Where  you  should  never  know  it,  and  so  perish 
Without  your  noble  hand  to  close  mine  eyes, 

( >r  prayers  to  the  gods  :  a  thousand  chances, 
Were  we  from  hence,  would  sever  us. 

Pal.  You  have  made  me 

(I  thank  you,  Cousin  Arcite  !)  almost  wanton 
With  my  captivity :  what  a  misery 
It  is  to  live  abroad,  and  everywhere  ! 
'Tis  like  a  beast,  methinks  !    I  find  the  court  here, 
I'm  sure,  a  more  content ;  and  all  those  pleasures, 
That  woo  the  wills'  of  men  to  vanity, 
I  see  through  now  ;  and  am  sufficient  [bold] 
To  tell  the  world,  'tis  but  a  gaudy  shadow, 
That  old  Time,  as  he  passes  by,  takes  with  him. 
What  had  we  been,  old  in  the  court  of  Creon, 
Where  sin  is  justice,  lust  and  ignorance 
The  virtues  of  the  great  ones  !     Cousin  Arcite, 
Had  not  the  loving  gods  found  this  place  for  us, 
We  had  died  as  they  do,  ill  old  men  unwept, 
And  had  their  epitaphs,  the  people's  curses  ! 
Shall  I  say  more  ? 

Arc.  I  would  hear  you  still. 

Pal.  You  shall. 

Is  there  record  of  any  two  that  loved 
Better  than  we  do,  Arcite  ? 

1  This  line  is  usually  divided  thus — "  they  must  not :  say 
they  could" — but  the  meaning  is,  they  must  not  admit  to 
themselves  that  they  can  sink,  lest  they  do  so,  since  to  de- 
spair is  to  die  sleeping,  willingly. 

t  Crave  is  the  word  of  the  early  copies.  M.  Mason  pro- 
poses to  read  cleave — that  is,  separate— the  acquaintance  of 
the  two  friends.  We  receive  the  passage  as — the  envy 
which  characterizes  ill  men  may  crave  that  we  also  should 
become  acquainted  with  that  passion. 


Are.  Sure  there  can  not. 

Pal.  I  do  not  think  it  possible  our  friendship 
Should  ever  leave  us. 
Arc.  Till  our  deaths  it  can  not ; 

Enter  EMILIA  and  her  Servant,  t'n  the  garden  btlov. 

And  after  death  our  spirits  shall  be  led 

To  those  that  love  eternally.    Speak  on,  sir ! 

Emi.  This  garden  has  a  world  of  pleasures  in't. 
What  flower  is  this  ? 

Serv.  'Tis  called  Narcissus,  madam. 

Emi.  That  was  a  fair  boy,  certain,  but  a  fool 
To  love  himself;  were  there  not  maids  enough  ? 

Arc.  (above).  Pray,  forward!3 

Pal.  Yes. 

Emi.  Or  were  they  all  hard-hearted  ? 

Serv.  They  could  not  be  to  one  so  fair. 

Emi.  Thou  wouldst  not  ? 

Serv.  I  think  I  should  not,  madam. 

Emi.  That's  a  good  wench  ! 

But  take  heed  to  your  kindness  though  ! 

Serv.  Why,  madam  ? 

Emi.  Men  are  mad  things. 

Arc.  (above).  Will  you  go  forward,  cousin?4 

Emi.  Canst  not  thou  work  such  flowers  in  silk, 
•wench  ? 

Serv.  Yes. 

Emi.  I'll  have  a  gown  full  of  them,  and  of  these ; 
This  is  a  pretty  color:  will't  not  do 
Rarely  upon  a  skirt,  wench  ? 

Serv.  Dainty,  madam. 

Arc.  Cousin !    How  do    you,  sir  ?     Why,    Pala 
mot! 

Pal.  Never  'till  now  was  I  in  prison,  Arcite. 

Arc.  Why,  what's  the  matter,  man  ? 

Pal.  Behold,  and  wonder  ! 

By  Heaven,  she  is  a  goddess  ! 

Arc.  (sees  Emilia).        Ha  ! 

Pal.  Do  reverence ! 

She  is  a  goddess,  Arcite  ! 

Emi.  Of  all  flowers, 

Methinks  a  rose  is  best. 

Serv.  Why,  gentle  madam  ! 

Emi.  It  is  the  very  emblem  of  a  maid : 
For  when  the  west  wind  courts  her  gentily, 
How  modestly  she  blows,  and  paints  the  sun 
With  her  chaste  blushes !    When  the  north  comes 

near  her, 

Rude  and  impatient,  then,  like  chastity, 
She  locks  her  beauties  in  her  bud  again, 
And  leaves  him  to  base  briars. 

Serv.  Yet,  good  madam. 

Sometimes  her  modesty  will  blow  so  far 
She  falls  for  it :  a  maid, 
If  she  have  any  honor,  would  be  loath 
To  take  example  by  her. 

Emi.  Thou  art  wanton. 

Arc.  She's  wondrous  fair  ! 

Pal.  She's  all  the  beauty  extant 

Emi.  The  sun  grows  high ;  let's  walk  in  !     Keep 

these  flowers ; 

We'll  see  how  near  art  can  come  near5  their  colors. 
I'm  wondrous  merry-hearted  ;  1  could  laugk  now. 

3  That  is — "  speak  on" — respecting  a  former  entreaty. 

4  Palamon  has  been  silent  in  watching  Emilia. 

6  We  might  read  "  compare"  in  this  place,  instead  of  come 
near.  "  How  near  art  can  come  near."  is  such  an  awkward 
ness  as  might  well  justify  the  substitute. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  II. 


23 


Serv.  I  could  lie  down,  I'm  sure. 

Emi.  And  take  one  with  you  ? 

Serr.  That's  as  we  bargain,  madam. 

Emi.  Well  agreei  then.  [Exit  with  Serv. 

Pal.  What  think  you  of  this  beauty  ? 

Arc.  'Tis  a  rare  one. 

Pal.  Is't  but  a  rare  one  ? 

Arc.  Yes,  a  matchless  beauty. 

Pal.  Might  not  a  man  well  lose  himself,  and  love 
her? 

Arc.  I  can  not  tell  what  you  have  done  ;  I  have! — 
Beshrew  mine  eyes  for  it !    Now  I  feel  my  shackles. 

Pal.  You  love  her,  then  ? 

Arc.  Who  would  not? 

Pal.  And  desire  her  ? 

Arc.  Before  my  liberty. 

Pal.  I  saw  her  first. 

Arc.  That's  nothing. 

Pal.  But  it  shall  be. 

Arc.  I  saw  her  too. 

Pal.  Yes ;  but  you  must  not  love  her. 

Arc.  I  will  not,  as  you  do ;  to  worship  her, 
As  she  is  heavenly,  and  a  blessed  goddess : 
I  love  her  as  a  woman,  to  enjoy  her ; 
So  both  may  love. 

Pal.  You  shall  not  love  at  all. 

Arc.  Not  love  at  all  ?  who  shall  deny  me? 

Pal.  I  that  first  saw  her ;  I  that  took  possession 
First,  with  mine  eye,  of  all  those  beauties  in  her 
Revealed  [un]to  mankind  !     If  thou  lovest  her, 
Or  entertainest  a  hope  to  blast  my  wishes, 
Thou  art  a  traitor,  Arcite,  and  a  fellow 
False  as  thy  title  to  her.    Friendship,  blood, 
And  all  the  ties  between  us,  I  disclaim, 
If  thou  once  think  upon  her  ! 

Arc.  Yes,  I  love  her ; 

And  if  the  lives  of  all  my  name  lay  on  it, 
I  must  do  so.    I  love  her  with  my  soul ! 
If  that  will  lose  you,  farewell,  Palamon  ! 
I  say  again,  I  love ;  loving  her,  maintain 
I  am  as  worthy  and  as  free  a  lover, 
And  have  as  just  a  title  to  her  beauty, 
A  s  any  Palamon,  or  any  living, 
That  is  a  man's  son. 

Pal.  Have  I  called  thee  friend  ? 

Arc.  Yes,  and  have  found  me  so.    Why  are  you 

moved  thus  ? 

Let  me  deal  coldly2  with  you  !  am  not  I  [me 

Part  of  your  blood,  part  of  your  soul  ?  you've  told 
That  I  was  Palamon,  and  you  Arcite. 

Pal.  Yes. 

Arc.  Am  I  not  liable  to  those  affections,          [fer  * 
Those  joys,  griefs,  angers,  fears,  my  friend  shall  suf- 

Pal.  You  may  be. 

Arc.  Why  then  would  you  deal  so  cunningly, 
So  strangely,  so  unlike  a  noble  kinsman, 
To  love  alone  ?     Speak  truly ;  do  you  think  me 
Unworthy  of  her  sight  ? 

Pal.  No  ;  but  unjust 

If  thou  pursue  that  sight. 

Arc.  Because  another 

First  sees  the  enemy,  shall  I  stand  still, 
And  let  mine  honor  down,  and  never  charge? 

Pal.  Yes,  if  he  be  but  one. 

1  Or,  "  we'll  agree" — that  is,  to  take  as  we  bargain. 

*  Coolly,  calmly,  aa  a  reasoning  being ;  or  it  may  be,  boldly. 


Arc.  But  say  that  one 

Had  rather  combat  me  ? 

Pal.  Let  that  one  say  so, 

And  use  thy  freedom  !  else,  if  thou  pursuest  her, 
Be  as  that  cursed  man  that  hates  his  country, 
A  branded  villain ! 

Arc.  You  are  mad. 

Pal.  I  must  be, 

Till  thou  art  worthy.    Arcite,  it  concerns  me  ; 
And,  in  this  madness,  if  I  hazard  thee 
And  take  thy  life,  I  deal  but  truly. 

Arc.  Fie,  sir ! 

You  play  the  child  extremely.    I  will  love  her, 
I  must,  I  ought  to  do  so,  and  I  dare  ; 
And  all  this,  justly. 

Pal.  Oh,  that  now,  that  now, 

Thy  false  self,  and  thy  friend,  had  but  this  fortune, 
To  be  one  hour  at  liberty,  and  grasp 
Our  good  swords  in  our  hands !  I'd  quickly  teach  thee 
What  'twere  to  filch  affection  from  another ! 
Thou'rt  baser  in  it  than  a  cutpurse  !    But  put 
Thy  head  but  once  out  of  this  window  more, 
And,  as  I  have  a  soul,  I'll  nail  thy  life  to't ! 

Arc.  Thou  darest  not,  fool ;  thou  canst  not ;  thou 

art  feeble ! 

Put  my  head  out  ?    I'll  throw  my  body  out, 
And  leap  the  garden,  when  I  see  her  next, 

Enter  GAOLER. 
And  pitch3  between  her  arms,  to  anger  thee. 

Pal.  No  more  ;  the  keeper's  coming :  I  shall  live 
To  knock  thy  brains  out  with  my  shackles. 

Arc.  Do. 

Gaoler.  By  your  leave,  gentlemen. 

Pal.  Now,  honest  keeper  ? 

Gaoler.   Lord  Arcite,  you  must  presently  to  the 
The  cause  I  know  not  yet.  [duke : 

Arc.  I  am  ready,  keeper. 

Gaoler.  Prince  Palamon.  I  must  awhile  bereave  you 
Of  your  fair  cousin's  company. 

[Exit  with  ARCITE. 

Pal.  And  me  too, 

Even  when  you  please,  of  life  !  —  Why  is  he  sent  for? 
It  may  be,  he  shall  marry  her :  he's  goodly ; 
And  like  enough  the  duke  hath  taken  notice 
Both  of  his  blood  and  body.    But  his  falsehood ! 
Why  should  a  friend  be  treacherous  ?    If  that 
Get  him  a  wife  so  noble  and  so  fair, 
Let  honest  men  ne'er  love,  again.    Once  more 
I  would  but  see  this  fair  one     Blessed  garden,  [som 
And  fruit,  and  flowers  more  blessed,  that  still  bios- 
As  her  bright  eyes  shine  on  ye  !     'Would  I  were, 
^or  all  the  fortune  of  my  life  hereafter, 
Yon  little  tree,  yon  blooming  apricot ! 
How  I  would  spread,  and  fling  my  wanton  arms 
In  at  her  window  !  I  would  bring  her  fruit ! 
Fit  for  the  gods  to  feed  on.     Youth  and  pleasure, 
Still,  as  she  tasted,  should  be  doubled  on  her; 
And,  if  she  be  not  heavenly,  I  would  make  her 
So  near  the  gods  in  nature,  they  should  fear  her ; 
And  then  I'm  sure  she'd  love  me. 

Enter  GAOLER. 

How  now,  keeper ! 
Where's  Arcite? 
Gaoler.  Banished.    Prince  Perithous 

3  QU.I    Perch} 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


Obtained  his  liberty  ;  but  never  more, 
Upon  his  oath  and  life,  must  he  set  foot 
Upon  this  kingdom. 

Pal.  He's  a  blessed  man  ! 

He  shall  see  Thebes  again,  and  call  to  arms 
The  bold  young  men,  that,  when  he  bids  them  charge, 
Fall  on  like  fire.    Arcite  shall  have  a  fortune,1 
If  he  dare  make  himself  a  worthy  lover, 
Yet  in  the  field  to  strike  a  battle  for  her ; 
And  if  he  lose  her  then,  he's  a  cold  coward : 
How  bravely  may  he  bear  himself  to  win  her, 
If  he  be  noble  Arcite,  thousand  ways  ! 
Were  I  at  liberty,  I  would  do  things 
Of  such  a  virtuous  greatness,  that  this  lady, 
This  blushing  virgin,  should  take  manhood  to  her, 
And  seek  to  ravish  me. 

Gaoler.  My  lord,  for  you 

I  have  this  charge  too. 

Pal.  To  discharge  my  life  ? 

Gaoler.  No ;  but  from  this  place  to  remove  your 
The  windows  are  too  open.  [lordship ; 

Pal.  Devils  take  them, 

That  are  so  envious  to  me  !    Prithee  kill  me  ! 

Gaoler.  And  hang  for't  afterward ! 

Pal.  By  this  good  light, 

Had  I  a  sword,  I'd  kill  thee. 

Gaoler.  Why,  my  lord? 

Pal.  Thou  bringest  such  pelting  scurvy  news  con- 
tinually, 
Thou  art  not  worthy  life  !    I  will  not  go. 

Gaoler.  Indeed  you  must,  my  lord. 

Pal.  May  I  see  the  garden  ? 

Gaoler.  No. 

Pal.  Then  I'm  resolved  I  will  not  go. 

Gaoler.  I  must 

Constrain  you  then !  and,  for  you're  dangerous, 
I'll  clap  more  irons  on  you. 

Pal.  Do,  good  keeper, 

And  I  will  shake  'em  so,  you  shall  not  sleep  j 
I'll  make  you  a  new  morris !    Must  I  go  ? 

Gaoler.  There  is  no  remedy. 

Pal.  Farewell,  kind  window  ! 

May  rude  wind  never  hurt  thee !    Oh,  my  lady, 
If  ever  thou  hast  felt  what  sorrow  was, 
Dream  how  I  suffer  !    Come,  now  bury  me.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 
Enter  ARCITE. 

Arc.  Banished  the  kingdom  !    'Tis  a  benefit, 
A  mercy  I  must  thank  them  for ;  but  banished 
The  free  enjoying  of  that  face  I  die  for, 
Oh,  'twas  a  studied  punishment,  a  death 
Beyond  imagination !    Such  a  vengeance, 
That,  were  I  old  and  wicked,  all  my  sins 
Could  never  pluck  upon  me.    Palamon, 
Thou  hast  the  start  now ;  thou  shall  stay  and  see 
Her  bright  eyes  break  each  morning  'gainst  thy  win 
And  let  in  life  unto  thee  ;  thou  shall  feed  [dow 

Upon  the  sweetness  of  a  noble  beauty, 
That  nature  ne'er  exceeded,  nor  ne'er  shall. 
Good  gods,  what  happiness  has  Palamon  ! 
Twenty  to  one  he  '11  come  to  speak  to  her ; 
And,  if  she  be  as  gentle  as  she's  fair, 
I  know  she's  his.    He  has  a  tongue  will  tame 

1  Fortune — a  chance. 


'empests,  and  make  the  wild  rocks  wanton. 

ome  what  can  come,  the  worst  is  [only]  death 

will  not  leave  this  kingdom : 

know  my  own  is  but  a  heap  of  ruins, 

nd  no  redress  there  !     If  I  go,  he  has  her. 

am  resolved :  another  shape  shall  make  me, 

'r  end  my  fortunes ;  either  way,  I'm  happy : 

'11  see  her,  and  be  near  her,  or  no  more. 

Inter  four  Country  People ;  one  uith  a  garland  before 
them. 

1  Coun.  My  masters,  I'll  be  there,  that's  certain 

2  Coun.  And  I'll  be  there. 

3  Coun.  And  I. 

4  Coun.  Why  then,  have  with  ye,  boys  !  'tis  but  3 

chiding ; 

..et  the  plough  play  to-day  !  I'll  tickle't  out 
)f  the  jades'  tails  to-morrow ! 

1  Coun.  I  am  sure 
To  have  my  wife  as  jealous  as  a  turkey: 

But  that's  all  one  ;  I'll  go  through,  let  her  mumble. 

3  Coun.  Do  we  all  hold  against  the  maying  ?2 

4  Coun.  Hold  !  what  should  ail  us  ? 

3  Coun.  Areas  will  be  there. 

2  Coun.  And  Sennois, 

And  Rycas ;  and  three  better  lads  ne'er  danced 
Jnder  green  tree.    Ye  know  what  wenches.    Ha ! 
Jut  will  the  dainty  domine,  the  schoolmaster, 
Jeep  touch,  do  you  think  ?  for  he  does  all,  ye  know. 

3  Coun.  He'll  eat  a  hornbook,  ere  he  fail :  Go  to  ! 
The  matter  is  too  far  driven  between 

3im  and  the  tanner's  daughter,  to  let  slip  now  ; 
And  she  must  see  the  duke,  and  she  must  dance  too. 

4  Coun.  Shall  we  be  lusty  ? 

2  Coun.  All  the  boys  in  Athens, 

Blow  wind  i'the  breech  on  us  !  ... 
(Sing*)— And  here  I'll  be 

And  there  I'll  be,— 
For  our  town  .... 

And  here  again, 
And  there  again. 
Ha,  boys !    Heigh  for  the  weavers. 

1  Coun.  This  must  be  done  i'  the  woods. 

4  Coun.  Oh,  pardon  me  ! 

2  Cown.  By  any  means ;  our  thing  of  learning  says 
Where  he  himself  will  edify  the  duke  [so ; 
Most  parlously  in  our  behalfs :  he's  excellent 

I'  the  woods.    Bring  him  to  the  plains, 
His  learning  makes  no  cry. 

3  Cown.  We'll  see  the  sports ; 
Then  every  man  to  his  tackle  ;  and, 
Companions,  let's  rehearse  by  any  means, 

Before  the  ladies  see  us  ;  and  do't  sweetly, 
And  God  knows  what  may  come  on't ! 

4  Coun.  Content : 

The  sports  once  ended,  we'll  perform.    Away,  boys  : 
And  hold ! 

Arc.  By  your  leaves,  honest  friends  !    I  pray  you, 
Whither  go  you  ? 

4  Coun.  Whither  ?  why,  what  a  question's  that ! 

5  When  we  open  Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  works,  we  en- 
counter grossnesses  entirely  of  a  different  nature  from  those 
which  occur  in  Shakspeare.    They  are  the  result  of  impure 
thoughts,  not  the  accidental  reflection  of  loose  manners. 
They  are  meant  to  be  corrupting,    We  have  four  lines  here 
conceived  in  this  spirit,  and  we  omit  them  without  hesita- 
tion.   No  one  has  thought  that  these  comic  scenes  were 
written  by  Shakspeare. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  V. 


25 


Arc.  Yes,  'tis  a  question, 
To  me,  that  know  not. 

3  Coun.  To  the  games,  my  friend. 

2  Coun.  Where  were  you  bred,  you  know  it  not  ? 

Arc.  Not  far,  sir. 

Are  there  such  games  to-day  ? 

1  Coun.  Yes,  marry  are  there  j 
And  such  as  you  ne'er  saw  :  the  duke  himself 
Will  be  in  person  there. 

Arc.  What  pastimes  are  they  ? 

2  Coun.  Wrestling  and  running.    'Tis  a  pretty  fel- 

low. 

3  Coun.  Thou  wilt  not  go  along  ? 

Arc.  Not,  yet,  sir. 

4  Coun.  Well,  sir, 
Take  your  own  time.    Come,  boys  ! 

1  Coun.  My  mind  misgives  me, 
This  fellow  hath  a  vengeance  trick  o'  the  hip ; 
Mark,  how  his  body's  made  for't ! 

2  Coun.  I'll  be  hanged  though 
If  he  dare  venture  ;  hang  him ;  he,  plum-porridge  ! 
He  wrestle  ?    He  roast  eggs.     Come,  let's  be  gone, 

lads  !  [Exeunt  Countrymen. 

Arc.  This  is  an  offered  opportunity 
I  durst  not  wish  for.    Well  I  could  have  wrestled ; 
The  best  men  called  it  excellent ; — and  run, — 
Swifter  the  wind  upon  a  field  of  corn 
(Curling  the  wealthy  ears)  ne'er  flew  I1    I'll  venture, 
And  in  some  poor  disguise  be  there  :  who  knows 
Whether  my  brows  may  not  be  girt  with  garlands, 
And  happiness  prefer  me  to  a  place 
Where  I  may  ever  dwell  in  sight  of  her  ?          [Exit. 

SCENE  IV. 

Enter  Gaoler's  DAUGHTER. 

Laugh.  Why  should  I  love  this  gentleman.  'Tis 
He  never  will  affect  me.  I  am  base ;  [odds 

My  father  the  mean  keeper  of  his  prison, 
And  he  a  prince  :  to  marry  him  is  hopeless, 
To  be  his  whore  is  witless.    Out  upon  't ! 
What  pushes  are  we  wenches  driven  to, 
When  fifteen  once  has  found  us  !    First,  I  saw  him  ; 
I,  seeing,  thought  he  was  a  goodly  man. 
He  has  as  much  to  please  a  woman  in  him, 
(If  he  please  to  bestow  it  so)  as  ever 
These  eyes  yet  looked  on :  next,  I  pitied  him  ; 
And  so  would  any  young  wench,  o'my  conscience, 
That  ever  dreamed,  or  vowed  her  maidenhead 
To  a  young  handsome  man  :  then,  I  loved  him, 
Extremely  loved  him,  infinitely  loved  him  ! 
And  yet  he  had  a  cousin,  fair  as  he  too ; 
But  in  my  heart  was  Palamon,  and  there, 
Lord  what  a  coil  he  keeps !     [Onlys]  to  hear  him 
Sing  in  an  evening,  what  a  heaven  it  is  ! 
And  yet  his  songs  are  sad  ones.    Fairer  spoken 

1  The  ordinary  reading  is : — 

"And  run. 

Swifter  the  wind  upon  a  field  of  corn 
(Curling  the  wealthy  ears)  ne'er  flew." 
The  original  has  than,  which  has  been  altered  to  the.    By 
changing  ne'er  to  e'er  we  obtain  a  better  construction.* 

*  And  with  Mr.  Knight's  permission,  I  have  ventured  to  re- 
store the  reading  of  the  for  than,  with  a  new  punctuation,  pre- 
ferring, though  with  great  deference,  the  present  construc- 
tion to  his  own. 

2  "  Only,"  is  here  an  interpolation,  to  render  the  line  com- 
plete and  musical.    In  Seward's  edition,  he  interpolates  "  to 
sit,"  thus — "  To  sit  and  hear,"  &c. 


Was  never  gentleman :  when  I  come  in, 

To  bring  him  water  in  a  morning,  first 

He  bows  his  noble  body,  then  salutes  me : 

"  Fair  gentle  maid,  good  morrow  !  may  thy  goodness 

Get  thee  a  happy  husband  !" — Once  he  kissed  ms  ; 

I  loved  my  lips  the  better  ten  days  after : 

'Would  he  would  do  so  everyday  !    He  grieves  much, 

And  me  as  much  to  see  his  misery : 

What  should  I  do  to  make  him  know  I  love  him  ? 

For  I  would  fain  enjoy  him :  say  I  ventured 

To  set  him  free  ?  what  says  the  law  then  ? 

Thus  much  for  law,  or  kindred  !    I  will  do  it, 

And  this  night  or  to-morrow.    He  shall  love  me  ! 

[Exit. 

SCENE  V. — A  short  flourish  of  corncts}  and  shouts 
within. 

Enter  THESEUS,    HIPPOLYTA,  PERITHOUS,  EMILIA, 
and  ARCITE,  with  a  garland,  fyc. 

Thes.  You  have  done  worthily.    I  have  not  seen, 
Since  Hercules,  a  man  of  tougher  sinews  : 
Whate'er  you  are,  you  run  the  best  and  wrestle, 
That  these  times  can  allow. 

Arc.  I  am  proud  to  please  you. 

Thes.  What  country  bred  you  ? 

Arc.  This  ;  but  far  off,  prince. 

Thes.  Are  you  a  gentleman  ? 

Arc.  My  father  said  so  j 

And  to  those  gentle  uses  gave  me  life. 

Thes.  Are  you  his  heir  ? 

Arc.  His  youngest,  sir. 

Thes.  Your  father 

Sure  is  a  happy  sire  then.    What  prove  you  ? 

Arc.  A  little  of  all  noble  qualities : 
I  could  have  kept  a  hawk,  and  well  have  halloo'd 
To  a  deep  cry  of  dogs.    I  dare  not  praise 
My  feat  in  horsemanship,  yet  they  that  knew  me 
Would  say  it  was  my  best  piece ;  last,  and  greatest, 
I  would  be  thought  a  soldier. 

Thes.  You  are  perfect. 

Per.  Upon  my  soul,  a  proper  man  ! 

Emi.  He  is  so. 

Per.  How  do  you  like  him,  lady? 

Hip.  I  admire  him : 

I  have  not  seen  so  young  a  man  so  noble 
(If  he  say  true)  of  his  sort. 

Emi.  Believe  [me^] 

His  mother  was  a  wondrous  handsome  woman  ! 
His  face,  methinks,  goes  that  way. 

Hip.  But  his  body, 

And  fiery  mind,  illustrate  a  brave  father. 

Per.  Mark  how  his  virtue,  like  a  hidden  sun, 
Breaks  through  his  baser  garments. 

Hip.  He's  well  got,  sure 

Thes.  What  made  you  seek  this  place,  sir  ? 

Arc.  Noble  Theseus, 

To  purchase  name,  and  do  my  ablest  service 
To  such  a  well-found  wonder  as  thy  worth  ; 
For  only  in  thy  court,  of  all  the  world, 
Dwells  fair-eyed  Honor. 

Per.  All  his  words  are  worthy. 

Thes.  Sir,  we  are  much  indebted  to  your  travel, 

3  Former  copies  simply  say,  "  believe."  I  add  the  word, 
"me,"  as  equally  necessary  to  the  rhythm  and  the  idiom. 
"  His  face  goes  that  way,"  means,  he  looks  like  his  mother — 
he  has  a  feminine  aspect. 


26 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


Nor  shall  you  lose  your  wish.    Perithous, 
Dispose  of  this  fair  gentleman. 

Per.  Thanks,  Theseus  !  — 

Whate'er  you  are,  you're  mine,  and  I  shall  give  you 
To  a  most  noble  service  ;  —  to  this  lady — 
This  bright  young  virgin  :  pray  observe  her  goodness: 
You've  honored  her  fair  birthday  with  your  virtues, 
\nd,  as  your  due,  you're  hers  ;  kiss  her  fair  hand,  sir. 

Arc.  Sir,  you're  a  noble  giver.  —  Dearest  beauty, 
Thus  let  me  seal  my  vowed  faith  !    When  your  ser- 
vant 

(Your  most  unworthy  creature)  but  offends  you, 
Command  him  die,  he  shall. 

Emi.  That  were  too  cruel. 

If  you  deserve  well,  sir,  I  shall  soon  see't : 
You're  mine,  and  somewhat  better  than  your  rank 
I  '11  use  you. 

Per.  I'll  see  you  furnished :  and  because  you  say 
You  are  a  horseman,  I  must  needs  entreat  you 
This  afternoon  to  ride  ;  but 't  is  a  rough  one. 

Arc.  I  like  him  better,  prince ;  I  shall  not  then 
Freeze  in  my  saddle. 

Thta.  Sweet,  you  must  be  ready ; 

And  you,  Emilia ;  and  you,  friend  ;  and  all ; 
To-morrow,  by  the  sun,  to  do  observance 
To  flowery  May,  in  Dian's  wood.    Wait  well,  sir, 
Upon  your  mistress  !    Emily,  I  hope 
He  shall  not  go  afoot. 

Emi.  That  were  a  shame,  sir, 

While  I  have  horses.    Take  your  choice ;  and  what 
You  want  at  any  time,  let  me  but  know  it : 
If  you  serve  faithfully,  I  dare  assure  you 
You'll  find  a  loving  mistress. 

Arc.  If  I  do  not, 

Let  me  find  that1  my  father  ever  hated, 
Disgrace  and  blows ! 

Thes.  Go,  lead  the  way ;  you've  won  it ; 

It  shall  be  so  :  you  shall  receive  all  dues 
Fit  for  the  honor  you  have  won ;  'twere  wrong  else. 
Sister,  beshrew  my  heart,  you  have  a  servant, 
That  if  I  were  a  woman,  would  be  master ; 
But  you  are  wise.  [Flourish. 

Emi.  1  hope  too  wise  for  that,  sir.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. 

Enter  Gaoler's  DAUGHTER. 

Daugh.  Let  all  the  dukes  and  all  the  devils  roar, 
He  is  at  liberty  !    I've  ventured  for  him  ; 
And  out  I've  brought  him  to  a  little  wood 
A  mile  hence.    I  have  sent  him,  where  a  cedar, 
Higher  than  all  the  rest,  spreads  like  a  plane 
Fast  by  a  brook  ;  and  there  he  shall  keep  close, 
Till  I  provide  him  files  and  food  ;  for  yet 
His  iron  bracelets  are  not  off.    Oh,  Love, 
What  a  stout-hearted  child  thou  art !    My  father 
Durst  better  have  endured  cold  iron  than  done  it. 
I  love  him  beyond  love,  and  beyond  reason, 
Or  wit  or  safety  !    I  have  made  him  know  it. 
I  care  not ;  I  am  desperate.    If  the  law 
Find  me,  and  then  condemn  me  for't,  some  wenches, 
Some  honest-hearted  maids,  will  sing  my  dirge, 

1  There  is  something  quite  obscure  in  this  passage.  I 
should  prefer  to  substitute  "forget,"  for  "find  that"  To 
forget  that  his  father's  lessons  always  taught  a  hatred  of  dis- 
grace and  blows,  would  be  necessary  to  one  whose  conduct 
la  supposed  to  deserve  them. — KNIGHT. 


And  tell  to  memory  my  death  was  noble, 
Dying  almost  a  martyr.    That  way  he  takes, 
I  purpose,  is  my  way  too :  sure,  he  can  not 
Be  so  unmanly  as  to  leave  me  here  ! 
If  he  do,  maids  will  not  so  easily 
Trust  men  again.    And  yet  he  has  not  thanked  me 
For  what  I've  done  ;  no,  not  so  much  as  kissed  me ; 
And  that,  methinks,  is  not  so  well ;  nor  scarcely 
Could  I  persuade  him  to  become  a  freeman, 
He  made  such  scruples  of  the  wrong  he  did 
To  me  and  to  my  father.    Yet,  I  hope, 
When  he  considers  more,  this  love  of  mine 
Will  take  more  root  within  him :  let  him  do 
What  he  will  with  me,  so  he  but  use  me  kindly ! 
For  use  me  so  he  shall,  or  I'll  proclaim  him, 
And  to  his  face,  no  man.    I'll  presently 
Provide  him  necessaries,  and  pack  my  clothes  up, 
And  where  there  is  a  path  of  ground  I'll  venture, 
So  he  be  with  me  !    By  him,  like  a  shadow, 
I'll  ever  dwell.    Within  this  hour  the  hubbub 
Will  be  all  o'er  the  prison.    I  am  then 
Kissing  the  man  they  look  for.    Farewell,  father  ! 
Get  many  more  such  prisoners,  and  such  daughters, 
And  shortly  you  may  keep  yourself.    Now  to  him  ! 

[Exit. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I. — Cornets  in  sundry  places.    Noise  and  hal- 
looing, as  people  a-maying. 

Enter  AKCITE. 

Arc.  The  duke  has  lost  Hippolyta ;  each  took 
A  several  land.    This  is  a  solemn  rite 
They  owe  bloomed  May,  and  the  Athenians  pay  it 
To  the  heart  of  ceremony.    Oh,  queen  ! 
Emilia,  fresher  than  [the]  May,  [and]  sweeter 
Than  her  gold  buttons  on  the  boughs,  or  all 
Th'  enamelled  knacks  o'  the  mead  or  garden  !  yea, 
We  challenge,  too,  the  bank  of  any  nymph, 
That  makes  the  stream  seem  flowers ;  thou,  oh  jewel 
Of  the  wood,  of  the  world,  hast  likewise  blessed  a 

place 

With  thy  sole  presence.    In  thy  rumination 
That  I,  poor  man,  might  eftsoons  come  between, 
And  chop1  on  some  cold  thought !  —  Thrice  blessed 

chance, 

To  drop  on  such  a  mistress, —  expectation 
Most  guiltless  of 't  3    Tell  me,  oh,  lady  Fortune, 
(Next  after  Emily  my  sovereign),  how  far 
I  may  be  proud.    She  takes  strong  note  of  me, 
Hath  made  me  near  her,  and  this  beauteous  mom 
(The  prim'sl  of  all  the  year)  presents  me  with 
A  brace  of  horses ;  two  such  steeds  might  well 
Be  by  a  pair  of  kings  backed,  in  a  field 
That  their  crowns'  titles  tried.    Alas,  alas, 
Poor  cousin  Palamon,  poor  prisoner  !  thou 
So  little  dream'st  upon  my  fortune,  that 
Thou  think'st  thyself  the  happier  thing,  to  be 
So  near  Emilia.    Me,  thou  deem'st  at  Thebes, 
And  therein  wretched,  although  free :  but  if 

1  Chop,  on  a  sudden,  to  meet  by  chance.  Still  the  passage 
is  obscure.  Why  a  cold  thought,  unless  it  is  meant  that  aa 
she  ruminates  coldly  and  indifferently,  her  heart  is  still  ac- 
cessible to  a  new  passion  t 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II. 


27 


Thou  knew'st  my  mistress  breathed  on  me,  and  that 
I  eared  her  language,  lived  in  her  eye,  oh,  coz, 
What  passion  would  enclose  thee  ! 

Enter  PALAMON  as  out  of  a  bush,  with  his  shackles  ; 
bends  his  fist  at  ARCITE. 

Pal.  Traitor  kinsman ! 

Thou  shouldst  perceive  my  passion,  if  these  signs 
Of  prisonment  were  off  me,  and  this  hand 
But  owner  of  a  sword.    By  all  oaths  in  one, 
I,  and  the  justice  of  my  love,  would  make  thee 
A  confessed  traitor  !     Oh,  thou  most  perfidious 
That  ever  gently  looked  !     The  void'st  of  honor 
That  e'er  bore  gentle  token  !    Falsest  cousin 
That  ever  blood  made  kin  !     Call'st  thou  her  thine  ? 
I'll  prove  it  in  my  shackles,  with  these  hands 
Void  of  appointment,1  that  thou  liest,  and  art 
A  very  thief  in  love,  a  chaffy  lord, 
Not2  worth  the  name  of  villain  !    Had  I  a  sword, 
And  these  house-clogs  away  — 
Arc,  Dear  cousin  Palamon  — 

Pal.  Cozener  Arcite,  give  me  language  such 
As  thou  hast  showed  me  feat ! 

Arc.  Not  finding,  in 

The  circuit  of  my  breast,  any  gross  stuff 
To  form  me  like  your  blazon,  holds  me  to 
This  gentleness  of  answer.     'Tis  your  passion 
That  thus  mistakes  ;  the  which,  to  you  being  enemy, 
Can  not  to  me  be  kind.    Honor  and  honesty 
I  cherish,  and  depend  on,  howsoe'er 
You  skip  them  in  me ;  and,  with  them,  fair  coz, 
I'll  maintain  my  proceedings.     Pray  be  pleased 
To  show  in  generous  terms'  your  griefs,  since  that 
Vour  question's  with  your  equal,  who  professes 
To  clear  his  own  way,  with  the  mind  and  sword 
Of  a  true  gentleman. 

Pal.  That  thou  durst,  Arcite  ! 

Arc.  My  coz,  my  coz,  you  have  been  well  adver- 
tised 

How  much  I  dare.    You've  seen  me  use  my  sword 
Against  th'  advice  of  fear.     Sure,  of  another 
You  would  not  hear  me  doubted,  but  your  silence 
Should  break  out,  though  i'  the  sanctuary. 

Pal.  Sir, 

I've  seen  you  move  in  such  a  place,  which  well 
Might  justify  your  manhood ;  you  were  called 
A  good  knight  and  a  bold :  but  the  whole  week's  not 
If  any  day  it  rain  !    Their  valiant  temper  [fair, 

Men  lose,  when  they  incline  to  treachery ; 
And  then  they  fight  like  compelled  bears, —  would  fly 
Were  they  not  tied. 

Are.  Kinsman,  you  might  as  well 

Speak  this,  and  act  it  in  your  glass,  as  to 
His  ear,  which  now  disdains  you  ! 

Pal.  Come  up  to  me  ! 

Quit  me  of  these  cold  gyves,  give  me  a  sword 
(Though  it  be  rusty),  and  the  charity 
Of  one  meal  lend  me  ;  come  before  me  then, 
A  good  sword  in  thy  hand,  and  do  but  say 
That  Emily  is  thine,  I  will  forgive 
The  trespass  thou  hast  done  me,  yea,  my  life, 
If  then  thou  carry't ;  and,  brave  souls  in  shades, 
That  have  died  many,  which  will  seek  of  me 
Some  news  from  earth,  they  shall  get  none  but  this, 
That  thou  art  brave  and  noble. 

1  Without  preparation  of  armor  or  weapons. 
3  Other  editions  read  "  nor." 


Arc.  Be  content ; 

Again  betake  you  to  your  hawthorn-house  ! 
With  counsel  of  the  night,  I  will  be  here 
With  wholesome  viands  ;  these  impediments 
Will  I  file  off ;  you  shall  have  garments,  and 
Perfumes  to  kill  the  smell  o'  the  prison ;  after, 
When  you  shall  stretch  yourself,  and  say  but,  'Arcite, 
I  am  in  plight !'  there  shall  be  at  your  choice 
Both  sword  and  armor. 

Pal.  Oh,  you  heavens,  dare  any 

So  noble,  bear  a  guilty  business  ?    None 
But  only  Arcite ;  therefore  none  but  Arcite, 
In  this  kind,  is  so  bold. 

Arc.  Sweet  Palamon  — 

Pal.  I  do  embrace  you,  and  your  offer :  for 
Your  offer  do't ;  ay,  only,  sir :  your  person, 
Without  hypocrisy,  I  may  not  wish 
More  than  my  sword's  edge  on't. 

[Wind  horns  of  cornets. 

Arc.  You  hear  the  horns  : 

Enter  your  musit,3  lest  this  match  between  us 
Be  crossed  ere  met.    Give  me  your  hand  :  farewell  ? 
I'll  bring  you  every  needful  thing :  I  pray  you 
Take  comfort,  and  be  strong  ! 

Pal.  Pray  hold  your  promise 

And  do  the  deed  with  a  bent  brow  !  most  certain 
You  love  me  not :  be  rough  with  me,  and  pour 
This  oil  out  of  your  language  :  by  this  air, 
1  could  for  each  word  give  a  cuff !  my  stomach 
Not  reconciled  by  reason. 

Arc.  Plainly  spoken  ! 

Yet  pardon  me  hard  language  :  when  I  spur 
My  horse,  I  chide  him  not ;  content  and  anger 

[  Wind  horns. 

In  me  have  bnt  one  face.  Hark,  sir  !  they  call 
The  scattered  to  the  banquet :  you  must  guess 
I  have  an  office  there. 

Pal.  Sir,  your  attendance 

Can  not  please  Heaven  ;  and  I  know  your  office 
Unjustly  is  achieved. 

Arc.  I've  a  good  title, 

I  am  persuaded :  this  question,  sick  between  ns, 
By  bleeding  must  be  cured.    I  am  a  suitor, 
That,  to  your  sword,  you  will  bequeath  this  plea, 
And  talk  of  it  no  more. 

•  Pal.  But  this  one  word : 
Yon  are  going  now  to  gaze  upon  my  mistress ; 
For,  note  you,  mine  she  is  — 

Arc.  Nay,  then  — 

Pal.  Nay,  pray  you  ! — 

You  talk  of  feeding  me  to  breed  me  strength : 

You  are  going  now  to  look  upon  a  sun 

That  strengthens  what  it  looks  on ;  there  you  have 

A  vantage  o'er  me ;  but  enjoy  it  till 

I  may  enforce  my  remedy.    Farewell !         [Exeunt 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  Gaoler's  DAUGHTER. 

Dattgh.  He  has  mistook  the  brake4 1  meant ;  is  gone 
After  his  fancy.  'Tis  now  well-nigh  morning; 

3  The  original  has,  "enter  your  music."  Seward  reads 
"  muse  quick,"  explaining  mat  to  be  "  the  muse  of  a  hare." 
Weber  adopts  muse,  but  omits  quick.  We  substitute  musit, 
which  has  the  same  meaning. 

•*  The  original  has  beake.    M.  Mason  suggested  brake.* 

*  Mr.  Seward  has  it  beck.    "  Brook"  is  probably  the  proper 
word.    She  has  previously  said  :— 

"  I  have  sent  him,"  &c, 
"  Fast  by  a  brook." 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


No  matter  !    Would  it  were  perpetual  night, 

And  darkness  lord  o'  the  world  !  —  Hark  !  'tis  a  wolf: 

In  me  hath  grief  slain  fear,  and,  but  for  one  thing, 

I  care  for  nothing  ;  and  that's  Palamon. 

I  reck  not  if  the  wolves  would  jaw  me,  so 

He  had  this  file.    What  if  I  hallooed  for  him  ? 

I  can  not  halloo  :  if  I  whooped,  what  then  ? 

If  he  not  answered,  I  should  call  a  wolf, 

And  do  him  but -that  service.    I  have  heard  [be 

Strange  howls  this  live-long  night ;  why  may't  not 

They  have  made  prey  of  him  ?     He  has  no  weapons ; 

He  cannot  run  ;  the  jingling  of  his  gyves 

Might  call  fell  things  to  listen,  who  have  in  them 

A  sense  to  know  a  man  unarmed,  and  can 

Smell  where  resistance  is.    I'll  set  it  down 

He's  torn  to  pieces ;  they  howled  many  together, 

And  then  they  fed  on  him  :  so  much  for  that ! 

Be  bold  to  ring  the  bell ;  how  stand  I  then  ? 

All's  chared1  when  he  is  gone.    No,  no,  I  lie ; 

My  father's  to  be  hanged  for  his  escape  ; 

Myself  to  beg,  if  I  prized  life  so  much 

As  to  deny  my  act ;  but  that  I  would  not, 

Should  I  try  death  by  dozens  !  —  I  am  moped : 

Food  took  I  none  these  two  days  ;  only  sipped 

Some  water.   Two  nights  have  not  closed  mine  eyes, 

Save  when  my  lids  scowered  off  their  brine  ;  alas, 

Dissolve,  my  life  !    Let  not  my  sense  unsettle, 

Lest  I  should  drown,  or  stab,  or  hang  myself! 

Oh,  state  of  nature,  fail  together  in  me,  [now  ? 

Since  thy  best  props  are  warped  !  —  So  !  which  way 

The  best  way  is  the  next  way  to  a  grave  : 

Each  errant  step  beside  is  torment.    Lo  ! 

The  moon  is  down,  the  crickets  chirp,  the  screech-owl 

Calls  in  the  dawn  !    All  offices  are  done, 

Save  what  I  fail  in  :  but  the  point  is  this, 

An  end,  and  that  is  all !  [Exit. 

SCENE  III. 

Enter  ARCITE,  with  mtat,  trine,  and  files. 

Are.  I  should  be  near  the  place.    Ho,  Cousin  Pala- 
mon ! 

Enter  PALAMOIT. 

Pat.  Arcite? 

Arc.  The  same  :  I've  brought  you  food  and  files. 
Come  forth,  and  fear  not ;  here's  no  Theseus. 

Pal.  Nor  none  so  honest,  Arcite. 

Arc.  That's  no  matter ; 

We'll  argue  that  hereafter.    Come,  take  courage ; 
You  shall  not  die  thus  beastly ;  here,  sir,  drink  ! 
I  know  you're  faint ;  then  I'll  talk  further  with  you. 

Pal.  Arcite,  thou  might'st  now  poison  me. 

Arc.  I  might ; 

But  I  must  fear  you  first.    Sit  down  ;  and,  good  now, 
No  more  of  these  vain  parleys  !    Let  us  not, 
Having  our  ancient  reputation  with  us, 
Make  talk  for  fools  and  cowards.    To  your  health  ! 

Pal.  Do— 

Arc.  Pray  sit  down  then  ;  and  let  me  entreat  you, 
By  all  the  honesty  and  honor  in  you, 

I  Alfs  chared.  Weber  says  that  this  means  "my  task  ia 
done,"— chare  being  used  in  the  sense  of  a  task.  Chare  is  a 
turn-  a  job  of  work.  We  doubt  the  explanation  * 

*  Why  not  "  all's  cleared  t"  The  sentence  which  follows 
seems  to  imply  some  such  signification :  "  No,  no  "  she  savs. 
"  1  lie ;  my  father's  to  be  hanged,"  &c. 


No  mention  of  this  woman  !    'Twill  disturb  us ; 
We  shall  have  time  enough. 

Pal.  Well,  sir,  I'll  pledge  you. 

Arc.  Drink  a  good  hearty  draught !  it  breeds  good 

blood,  man. 
Do  not  you  feel  it  thaw  you  ? 

Pal.  Stay;  I'll  tell  you 

After  a  draught  or  two  more. 

Arc .  Spare  it  not ; 

The  duke  has  more.    Eat  now. 

Pal.  Yes. 

Arc.  I  am  glad 

You  have  so  good  a  stomach. 

Pal-  I  am  gladder 

I  have  so  good  meal  to't. 

Arc.  Is't  not  mad  lodging 

Here,  in  the  wild  wood,  cousin ; 

Pal.  Yes,  for  them 

That  have  wild  consciences. 

Arc.  How  tastes  your  victuals  ? 

Your  hunger  needs  no  sauce,  I  see. 

Pal.  Not  much : 

But  if  it  did,  yours  is  too  tart,  sweet  cousin. 
What  is  this  ? 

Arc.  Venison. 

Pal.  'Tis  a  lusty  meat. 

Give  me  more  wine ;  here,  Arcite,  to  the  wenches 
We  have  known  in  our  days?    The  lord-steward's 
Do  you  remember  her  ?  [daughter ; 

Arc.  After  you,  coz. 

Pal.  She  loved  a  black-haired  man. 

Arc.  She  did  so  :  well,  sir  ? 

Pal.  And  I  have  heard  some  call  him  Arcite ;  and — 

Arc.  Out  with  it,  faith  ! 

Pal.  She  met  him  in  an  arbor : 

What  did  she  there,  coz  ?  Play  o'  the  virginals  ? 

Arc.  Something  she  did,  sir. 

Pal.  Made  her  groan  a  month  for't ; 

Or  two,  or  three,  or  ten. 

Arc.  The  marshal's  sister 

Had  her  share  too,  as  I  remember,  cousin, 
Else  there  be  tales  abroad  :  you'll  pledge  her  ? 

Pal.  Yes. 

Arc.  A  pretty  brown  wench  'tis  !    There  was  a 

time 

When  young  men  went  a-hunting,  and  a  wood, 
And  a  broad  beech ;  and  thereby  hangs  a  tale. — 
Heigh-ho !  [Sighs. 

Pal.       For  Emily,  upon  my  life  !    Fool, 
Away  with  this  strained  mirth  J    I  say  again, 
That  sigh  was  breathed  for  Emily :  base  cousin, 
Darest  thou  break  first  ? 

Arc.  You're  wide.  [honest ! 

Pal.  By  Heaven  and  earth,  there's  nothing  in  thee 

Arc.  Then  I'll  leave  you : 
You  are  a  beast  now. 

Pal.  As  thou  mak'st  me,  traitor. 

Arc.  There's  all  things  needful ;  files,  and  shirts 

and  perfumes : 

I'll  come  again  some  two  hours  hence,  and  bring 
That  that  shall  quiet  all. 

Pal.  A  sword  and  armor  ? 

Arc.  Fear  me  not,  you  are  now  too  foul :  farewell ! 
Get  off  your  trinkets ;  you  shall  want  naught. 

Pal.  Sirrah— 

Arc.  I'll  hear  no  more  !  [Exit. 

Pal.  If  he  keep  touch,  he  dies  for't !  [Exit. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  V. 


SCENE  IV. 

Enter  Gaoler's  DAUGHTER,  mad. 

Daugh.  I'm  very  cold,  and  all  the  stars  are  out  too, 
The  little  stars,  and  all  that  look  like  aglets  : 
The  sun  has  seen  my  folly.     Palamon  ! 
Alas,  no  ;  he's  in  heaven  ! — Where  am  I  now  ? — 
Vender's  the  sea,  and  there's  a  ship  ;  how't  tumbles  ! 
And  there's  a  rock  lies  watching  under  water  ; 
Now,  now,  it  beats  upon  it !  now,  now,  now  ! 
There's  a  leak  sprung,  a  sound  one  ;  how  they  cry  ! 
Upon  her  before  the  wind,1  you'll  lose  all  else  ! 
Up-with  a  course  or  two,  and  tack  about,  boys  ! 
Good  night,  good  night;  you're  gone!  — I'm  very 

hungry : 

Would  I  could  find  a  fine  frog  !  he  would  tell  me 
News  from  all  parts  o'  the  world ;  then  would  I  make 
A  carrack  of  a  cockle-shell,  and  sail 
By  east  and  northeast  to  the  king  of  pigmies, 
For  he  tells  fortunes  rarely.    Now  my  father, 
Twenty  to  one,  is  trussed  up  in  a  trice 
To-morrow  morning ;  I'll  say  never  a  word. 

SONG. 

For  I'll  cut  my  green  coat  a  foot  above  my  knee ; 
And  I'll  clip  my  yellow  locks  an  inch  below  mine  e'e 

Hey,  nonny,  nonny,  nonny. 
He's  buy  me  a  white  cut,  forth  for  to  ride, 
And  I'll  go  and  seek  him,  through  the  world  that  is  BO  wide. 

Hey,  nonny,  nonny,  nonny. 

Oh,  for  a  prick  now.  like  a  nightingale, 
To  put  my  breast  against  !3  I  shall  sleep  like  a  top 
else.  [Exit. 

SCENE  V. 

Enter  GERROLV,  four  Countrymen,  (andthe  Bavian5), 
two  or  three  Wenches,  with  a  Taborer. 

Ger.  Fie,  fie  ! 

What  tediosity  and  disensanity 
Is  here  among  ye  !     Have  my  rudiments 
Been  labored  so  long  with  ye,  milked  unto4  ye, 
And,  by  a  figure,  even  the  very  plum-broth 
And  marrow  of  my  understanding  laid  upon  ye, 
And  do  ye  still  cry  "where,"  and  "  how,"  and  "where- 
fore ?" 

Ye  most  coarse  frieze  capacities,  ye  jape5  judgments, 
Have  I  said  "  thus  let  be,"  and  "  there  let  be," 
And  "  then  let  be,"  and  no  man  understand  me  ? 

1  So  the  original.    There  have  been  several  attempts  to 
render  this  proper  nautical  language.    Weber  reads, "  spoom 
her  before  the  wind."* 

*  "  Put  her  before  the  wind,"  is  just  as  likely  to  be  the 
reading.    Mr.  Sympson  recommends,  "  Up  with  her  'fore  the 
wind ;"  and  Mr.  Theobald,  "  Spoon  her  before,"  &c.    The 
choice  is  with  the  reader. 

2  The  nightingale  is  fabled  to  sing  most  sweetly  when  thus 
Butferine  from  the  thorn. 

3  Fletcher  uses  this  term  for  a  character  in  the  morris- 
dance.* 

*  The  Bavian,  according  to  Nares,  is  ababoon  or  monkey, 
but  not  a  regular  character  in  the  old  morris-dance.    His 
office  here  is  to  bark,  to  tumble,  play  antics  of  all  sorts,  and 
exhibit  an  enormous  length  of  tail,  with  a  due  regard  to 
decency. 

*  Quere  :    "  Milked  into  ye"  ? 

5  Jape.  The  original  has  jave.  Seward  reads  sleave.  As 
no  one  can  explain  jave, — and  sleave,  the  sleave  of  silk,  is 
almost  meaningless, — we  substitute  jape, — belonging  to  a 
buffoon,  &japer.* 

*  The  orialnal  is  "  jabe."    This  may  be  only  a  misprint  for 
"have." — "  Ye  have  judgments,"  spoken  ironically. 


Proh  Deum,  medius  fidius  ;  ye  are  all  dunces  ! 

For  why  ?  here  stand  I ;  here  the  duke  comes  ;  there 

are  you, 

Close  in  the  thicket ;  the  duke  appears,  I  meet  him, 
And  unto  him  I  utter  learned  things, 
And  many  figures  ;  he  hears,  and  nods,  and  hums, 
And  then  cries  "  rare  !"  and  I  go  forward  ;  at  length 
I  fling  my  cap  up  ;  mark  there  !  then  do  you, 
As  once  did  Meleager  and  the  boar, 
Break  comely  out  before  him,  like  true  lovers , 
Cast  yourselves  in  a  body  decently, 
And  sweetly,  by  a  figure,  trace,  and  turn,  boys  ! 

1  Coun.  And  sweetly  we  will  do  it,  Master  Gerrold, 

2  Coun.  Draw  up  the  company.    Where's  the  la- 

borer ? 

3  Coun.  Why,  Timothy ! 

Tab.  Here,  my  mad  boys  ;  have  at  ye  ! 

Ger.  But,  I  say,  where's  the  women  ? 

4  Coun.  Here's  Friz  and  Maudlin 

2  Coun.  And  little  Luce,  with  the  white  legs,  and 

bouncing  Barbary. 

1  Coun.  And  freckled  Nell,  that  never  failed  her 

master. 
Ger.  Where  be  your  ribands,  maids  ?    Swim  with 

your  bodies, 

And  carry  it  sweetly,  and  deliverly  ;6 
And  now  and  then  a  favor,  and  a  frisk  ! 
Nell.  Let  us  alone,  sir. 
Ger.  Where's  the  rest  o'  the  music  ? 

3  Coun.  Dispersed  as  you  commanded. 

Ger.  Couple  then/ 

And  see  what's  wanting.    Where's  the  Bavian  ? 
My  friend,  carry  your  tail  without  offence 
Or  scandal  to  the  ladies  ;  and  be  sure 
You  tumble  with  audacity,  and  manhood  ! 
And  when  you  bark,  do  it  with  judgment. 

Bars.  Yes,  sir. 

Ger.  Quo  usque  tandem  ?    Here's  a  woman  wanting. 

4  Coun.  We  may  go  whistle  ;  all  the  fat's  i'  the 

fire! 

Ger.  We  have, 

As  learned  authors  utter,  washed  a  tile  ; 
We  have  been/ofrms,  and  labored  vainly. 

2  Coun.  This  is  that  scornful  piece,  that  scurvy 

hilding, 

That  gave  her  promise  she  would  faithfully 
Be  here,  the  sempster's  daughter,  Cicely  ! 
The  next  gloves  that  I  give  her  shall  be  dog's  skin  ! 
Nay,  an  she  fail  me  once — You  can  tell,  Areas, 
She  swore,  by  wine  and  bread,  she  would  not  break. 

Ger.  An  eel  and  woman, 
A  learned  poet  says,  unless  by  the  tail 
And  with  thy  teeth  thou  hold,  will  either8  fail. 
In  manners ;— this  was  false  position. 

1  Coun.  A  fire  ill9  take  her  !  does  she  flinch  now  ? 

3  Coun.  What 
Shall  we  determine,  sir? 

Ger.  Nothing ; 

Our  business  is  become  a  nullity. 
Yea,  and  a  woful,  and  a  piteous  nullity !  [if, 

4  Coun.  Now,  when  the  credit  of  our  town  lay  on 

«  We  might  read,  "  deliver  ye"— i.  e.(  speak  what  you  have 
to  say. 

7  Or,  "  them." 

8  "  Ever"  would  seem  to  be  the  word. 

8  Mr.  Seward  reads  "  feril,"  or  "  ferule"  take  her — a  not  in- 
appropriate notion  of  punishment  on  the  part  of  a  peda- 
gogue. 


30 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


Now  to  be  frampal !    Now  to  wet  the  nettle  ;lt 
Go  thy  ways:  I'll  remember  thee,  I'll  fit  thee ! 

Enter  Gaoler's  DAUGHTER. 

Daugh.  The  George  alow  came  from  the  south, 

From  the  coast  of  Barbaree-a. 
And  there  he  met  with  brave'  gallants  of  war,    " 

By  one,  by  two,  by  three-a. 

Well  hailed,  well  hailed,  you  jolly  gallants  I 
And  whither  now  are  you  bound-a  T 

Oh,  let  me  have  your  company 

Till  I*  come  to  the  Sound-a ! 

There  was  three  fools,  fell  out  about  an  howlet : 

The  one  said  'twas  an  owl, 

The  other  he  said  nay, 
The  third  he  said  it  was  a  hawk, 

And  her  bells  were  cut  away. 

3  Coun.  There  is  a  dainty  mad  woman,  master, 
Comes  i'  the  nick  ;  as  mad  as  a  March  hare  ! 
If  we  can  get  her  dance,  we're  made  again : 
I  warrant  her,  she'll  do  the  rarest  gambols ! 

1  Coun.  A  mad  woman  ?    We  are  made,  boys ! 
Ger.  And  are  you  mad,  good  woman  ? 

Daugh.  I  would  be  sorry  else ; 

Give  me  your  hand. 

Ger.     '  Why? 

Daugh.  I  can  tell  your  fortune  : 

You  are  a  fool.    Tell  ten :  I've  pozed  him.    Buz  ! 
Friend,  you  must  eat  no  white  bread ;  if  you  do. 
Your  teeth  will  bleed  extremely.  Shall  we  dance,  ho  ? 
I  know  you ;  you're  a  tinker :  sirrah  tinker, 
Stop  no  more  holes,  but  what  you  should  !3 

Ger.  Diiboni!    A  tinker,  damsel? 

Daugh.  Or  a  conjurer : 

Raise  me  a  devil  now,  and  let  him  play 
Quipassa,  o'  the  bells  and  bones ! 

Ger.  Go,  take  her, 

And  fluently  persuade  her  to  a  peace. 
Atque  opus,  exegi,  quod  nee  Jovia  ira,  nee  ignis — 
Strike  up,  and  lead  her  in  ! 

2  Coun.  Come,  lass,  let's  trip  it ! 
Daugh.  I'll  lead.  [  Wind  horns. 

3  Coun.  Do,  do. 

Ger.  Persuasively,  and  cunningly ;  away,  boys ! 

[Exeunt  all  but  GEREOLD. 
I  hear  the  horns :  give  me  some  meditation, 
And  mark  your  cue.    Pallas  inspire  me  ! 

Enter  THESEUS,   PERITHOUS,  HIPPOLTTA,  EMILIA, 
ARCITE,  and  Train. 

Thes.  This  way  the  stag  took. 

Ger.  Stay,  and  edify ! 

i  I  have  altered  a  single  word  in  this  sentence,  where  to 
avoid  a  vulgarism,  Mr.  Knight  omits  it  altogether. 

9  /  is  omitted  in  the  original.    Weber  reads  tee. 

3  It  is  not  incumbent  on  an  editor  to  make  sense  of  the 
speeches  of  a  mad  woman,  the  author  himself  being  seldom 
inclined  to  do  so; — still  there  is  a  necessity  for  a  certain 
economy  even  in  nonsense,  and  a  degree  of  method  must 
needs  be  found  in  most  cases  of  dramatic  madness.  I  am 
inclined  to  think  that  the  stuff  here  spoken  by  the  daughter 
should  be  distributed  in  parts  among  some  of  her  compan- 
ions ;  and  would  read  the  passage  thus : — 

Daugh.  I  can  tell  jour  fortune : — 

You  are  a  fooL 

Ger.  Tell  ten.    [Tell't  then.] 

Dough.  Fve  pozed  him. 

Ger.  Buz. 

Dough.  Friend,  you  must  eat  no  white  bread; 
If  you  do ;  &c. 


Thes.  What  have  we  here  ? 

Per.  Some  country-sport,  upon  my  life,  sir. 

Thes.  Well,  sir,  go  forward :  we  will  edify. 
Ladies,  sit  down  !  we'll  stay  it. 

Ger.  Thou  doughty  duke,  all  hail  !  all  hail,  sweet 
ladies  ! 

Thes.  This  is  a  cold  beginning. 

Ger.  If  you  but  favor,  our  country  pastime  made  is 
We  are  a  few  of  those  collected  here, 
That  ruder  tongues  distinguish  villager ; 
And  to  say  verity,  and  not  to  fable, 
We  are  a  merry  rout,  or  else  a  rabble, 
Or  company,  or  by  a  figure,  chorus, 
That  'fore  thy  dignity  will  dance  a  morris. 
And  I  that  am  the  rectifier  of  all, 
By  title  Pedagogus,  that  let  fall 
The  birch  upon  the  breeches  of  the  small  ones, 
And  humble  with  a  ferula  the  tall  ones, 
Do  here  present  this  machine,  or  this  frame  : 
And,  dainty  duke,  whose  doughty  dismal  fame 
From  Dis  to  Dedalus,  from  post  to  pillar, 
Is  blown  abroad :  help  me,  thy  poor  well- wilier, 
And  with  thy  twinkling  eyes,  look  right  and  straight 
Upon  this  mighty  morr ;  —  of  mickle  weight, 
/*  —  now  comes  in,  which,  being  glued  together, 
Makes  morris,  and  the  cause  that  we  came  hither. 
The  body  of  our  sport,  of  no  small  study, 
I  first  appear,  though  rude,  and  raw,  and  muddy, 
To  speak  before  thy  noble  grace,  this  tenor : 
At  whose  great  feet  I  offer  up  my  penner.* 
The  next,  the  lord  of  May,  and  lady  bright, 
The  chambermaid,  and  servingman.  by  night, 
That  seek  out  silent  hanging :  then,  mine  host, 
And  his  fat  spouse,  that  welcome  to  their6  cost 
The  galled  traveller,  and  with  a  beck'ning 
Inform  the  tapster  to  inflame  the  reck'ning : 
Then  the  beast-eating  clown,  and  next  the  foo]. 
The  Bavian,  with  long  tail,  and  eke  long  tool ; 
Cum  multis  aliis,  that  make  a  dance  : — 
Say  "  ay,"  and  all  shall  presently  advance. 

Thes.  Ay,  ay,  by  any  jneans,  dear  domine  ! 

Per.  Produce. 

Ger.  Intratefilii!    Come  forth,  and  foot  it. 

Enter  Countrymen,  $c.    They  dance. 

Ladies,  if  we  have  been  merry, 

And  have  pleased  ye  with  a  derry, 

And  a  deny,  and  a  down, 

Say  the  schoolmaster's  no  clown. 

Duke,  if  we  have  pleased  thee  too, 

And  have  done  as  good  boys  should  do, 

Give  us  but  a  tree  or  twain 

For  a  Maypole,  and  again, 

Ere  another  year  run  out, 

We'll  make  thee  laugh,  and  all  this  rout. 
Thes.  Take  twenty,  domine. — How  does  my  sweei- 

heart? 

Hip.  Never  so  pleased,  sir. 
Emi.  'Twas  an  excellent  dance ; 

And,  for  a  preface,  I  never  heard  a  better. 
Thes.  Schoolmaster,  I  thank  you.    One  see  them 
all  rewarded. 

<  Penntr— case  for  holding  pens. 
6  1  should  prefer  to  read  :— 

"  Welcome  to  hit  coet, 
The  galled  traveller,"  Sue. 


ACT  IIL— SCENE  VI. 


Per.  And  here's    something  to    paint  your  pole 

withal. 

Thes.  Now  to  our  sports  again  ! 
Ger.  May  the  stag  thou  huntest  stand  long, 
And  thy  dogs  be  swift  and  strong  ! 
May  they  kill  him  without  letts, 
And  the  ladies  eat's  dowsets  ! 

Come,  we're  all  made  !  [Wind  horns. 

Dii  Deceque  omnes  ! 
Ye  have  danced  rarely,  wenches.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI. 

Enter  PALAMON  from  t he  bush. 

Pal.  About  this  hour  my  cousin  gave  his  faith 
To  visit  me  again,  and  with  him  bring 
Two  swords,  and  two  good  armors  ;  if  he  fail, 
He's  neither  man,  nor  soldier.    When  he  left  me, 
I  did  not  think  a  week  could  have  restored 
My  lost  strength  to  me  ;  I  was  grown  so  low     [cite, 
And  crest-fallen  with  my  wants.    I  thank  thee,  Ar- 
Thou'rt  yet  a  fair  foe  ;  and  I  feel  myself, 
With  this  refreshing,  able  once  again 
To  out-dure1  danger.    To  delay  it  longer  [ino> 

Would  make  the  world  think,  when  it  comes  to  hear- 
That  I  lay  fatting,  like  a  swine,  to  fight, 
And  not  a  soldier  :  therefore,  this  blessed  morning 
Shall  be  the  last ;  and  that  sword  he  refuses, 
If  it  but  hold,  I  kill  him  with :  'tis  justice : 
So,  Love  and  Fortune  for  me !    Oh,  good  morrow ! 

Enter  AECITE,  with  armors  and  swords. 

Arc.  Good  morrow,  noble  kinsman  ! 

Pal.  I  have  put  you 

To  too  much  pains,  sir. 

Arc.  That  too  much,  fair  cousin, 
Is  but  a  debt  to  honor,  and  my  duty.  [you 

Pal.  'Would  you  were  so  in  all,  sir  !  I  could  wish 
As  kind  a  kinsman,  as  you  force  me  find 
A  beneficial  foe  ;  that  my  embraces 
Might  thank  you,  not  my  blows. 

Arc.  I  shall  think  either, 

Well  done,  a  noble  recompense. 

Pal.  Then  I  shall  quit  you. 

Arc.  Defy  me  in  these  fair  terms,  and  you  show 
More  than  a  mistress  to  me  :  no  more  anger, 
As  you  love  anything  that's  honorable  ! 
We  are  not  bred  to  talk,  man  ;  when  we're  armed, 
And  both  upon  our  guards,  then  let  our  fury, 
Like  meeting  of  two  tides,  fly  strongly  from  us  ! 
And  then  to  whom  the  birthright  of  this  beauty 
Truly  pertains  (without  upbraidings,  scorns, 
Despisings  of  our  persons,  and  such  poutings, 
Fitter  for  girls  and  schoolboys)  will  be  seen,      [sir  ? 
And  quickly,  yours  or  mine.    Will't  please  you  arm, 
Or,  if  you  feel  yourself  not  fitting  yet,  [in, 

And  furnished2  with  your  old  strength,  I'll  stay,  cous- 
And  every  day  discourse  you  into  health. 
As  I  am  spared.    Your  person  I  am  friends  with, 
And  I  could  wish  I  had  not  said  I  loved  her, 
Though  I  had  died  ;  but,  loving  such  a  lady, 
And  justifying  my  love,  I  must  not  fly  from't. 

Pal.  Arcite,  thou  art  so  brave  an  enemy, 
That  no  man  but  thy  cousin's  fit  to  kill  thee : 
I'm  well,  and  lusty  ;  choose  your  arms  ! 

1  Here  I  should  certainly  prefer  to  read,  "  outdare." 
t  Should  we  not  rather  read,  "unfurnished"  for  "and 
furnished"  ? 

3 


Arc.  Choose  you,  sir 

Pal.  Wilt  thou  exceed  in  all,  or  dost  thou  do  it 
To  make  me  spare  thee  ? 

Arc.  If  you  think  so,  cousin, 

You  are  deceived  ;  for,  as  I  am  a  soldier, 
I'll  not  spare  you  ! 
Pal.  That's  well  said  ! 

Arc.  You  will  find   :. 

Pal.  Then,  as  I  am  an  honest  man,  and  love 
With  all  the  justice  of  affection, 
I'll  pay  thee  soundly !    This  I'll  take. 

Arc.  That's  mine  thei 

I'll  arm  you  first. 

Pal.  Do.    Pray  tell  me,  cousin, 

Where  gott'st  thou  this  good  armor  ? 

Arc.  'Tis  the  duke's 

And,  to  say  true,  I  stole  it.    Do  I  pinch  you  ? 

Pal.  No. 

Arc.         Is't  not  too  heavy  ? 

Pal.  I've  worn  a  lighter , 

But  I  shall  make  it  serve. 

Arc.  I'll  buckle't  close. 

Pal.  By  any3  means. 

Arc.  You  care  not  for  a  grand-guard?* 

Pal.  No,  no  ;  we'll  use  no  horses.    I  perceive 
Fou  would  fain  be  at  that  fight. 

Arc.  I'm  indifferent. 

Pal.  Faith,  so  am  I.    Good  cousin,  thrust  the  buckle 
Through,  far  enough ! 

Arc.  I  warrant  you. 

Pal.  My  casque  now ! 

Arc.  Will  you  fight  bare-armed  ? 

Pal.  We  shall  be  the  nimbler. 

Arc.  But  use  your  gauntlets  though :  those  are  o' 
Prithee  take  mine,  good  cousin  !  [the  least ; 

Pal.  Thank  you,  Arcite  ' 

How  do  I  look  ?  am  I  fallen  much  away  ? 

Arc.  Faith,  very  little ;  Love  has  used  you  kindly. 

Pal.  I'll  warrant  thee  I'll  strike  home. 

Arc.  Do,  and  spare  not ' 

I'll  give  you  cause,  sweet  cousin. 

Pal.  Now  to  you,  sir ! 

Methinks  this  armor's  very  like  that,  Arcite, 
Thou  wor'st  that  day  the  three  kings  fell,  but  lighter. 

Arc.  That  was  a  very  good  one ;  and  that  day, 
I  well  remember,  you  outdid  me,  cousin ; 
I  never  saw  such  valor  when  you  charged 
Upon  the  left  wing  of  the  enemy ; 
I  spurred  hard  to  come  up,  and,  under  me, 
I  had  a  right  good  horse. 

Pal.  You  had,  indeed ; 

A  bright-bay,  I  remember. 

Arc.  Yes.    But  all 

Was  vainly  labored  in  me ;  you  outwent  me, 
Nor  could  my  wishes  reach  you :  yet  a  little 
I  did  by  imitation. 

Pal.  More  by  virtue ; 

You're  modest,  cousin. 

Arc.  When  I  saw  you  charge  first 

Methought  I  heard  a  dreadful  clap  of  thunder 
Break  from  the  troop. 

Pal.  But  still,  before  that,  flew 

The  lightning  of  your  valor.  Stay  a  little  ! 
Is  not  this  piece  too  strait  ? 

S  "  Any,"  for  "  all." 

<  Grand-guard — armor  for  equestrian*. 


32 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


Arc.  Nj,  no;  'tis  well. 

Pal.  I  would  have  nothing  hurt  thee  but  my  sword ; 
A  bruise  would  be  disn  :nor. 

Arc.  Now  I'm  perfect. 

Pal.  Stand  off,  then  ! 

Arc.  Take  my  sword !    I  hold  it  better.1 

Pal.  I  thank  you,  no ;  [you]  keep't ;  your  life  lies 
Here's  one,  if  it  but  hold ;  I  ask  no  more          [on't : 
For  all  my  hopes.    My  cause  and  honor  guard  me  ! 
[They  bow  several  unys  ;  then  advance  and  stand. 

Arc.  And  me,  my  love  !  Is  there  aught  else  to  say  ? 

Pal.  This  only,  and  no  more :  thou  art  mine  aunt's 
And  that  blood  we  desire  to  shed  is  mutual ;       [son, 
In  me,  thine,  and  in  th?e  mine :  my  sword 
Is  in  my  hand,  and  if  thou  killest  me 
The  gods  and  I  forgive  thee  !    If  there  be 
A  place  prepared  for  those  that  sleep  in  honor, 
I  wish  his  weary  soul  that  falls  may  win  it ! 
Fight  bravely,  cousin ;  give  me  thy  noble  hand  ! 

Arc.  Here,  Palamon  !    This  hand  shall  never  more 
Come  near  thee  with  such  friendship. 

Pal.  I  commend  thee. 

Arc.  If  I  fall,  curse  me,  and  say  I  was  a  coward ; 
For  none  but  such  dare  die  in  these  just  trials. 
Once  more,  farewell,  my  cousin  ! 

Pal.  Farewell,  Arcite  !     [Fight. 

[Horns  ictthin  •  they  stand. 

Arc.  Lo,  cousin,  lo !  our  folly  has  undone  us  ! 

Pal.  Why? 

Arc.  This  is  the  duke,  a-hunting,  as  I  told  you ; 
If  we  be  found,  we're  wretched  !    Oh,  retire, 
For  honor's  sake  and  safety ;  presently 
Into  your  bush  again,  sir  !     We  shall  find 
Too  many  hours  to  die  in.    Gentle  cousin, 
If  you  be  seen  you  perish  instantly, 
For  breaking  prison  ;  and  I.  if  you  reveal  me, 
For  my  contempt :  then  all  the  world  will  scorn  us, 
And  say  we  had  a  noble  difference, 
But  base  disposers  of  it. 

Pal.  No,  no,  cousin  ; 

I  will  no  more  be  hidden,  nor  put  off 
This  great  adventure  to  a  second  trial ! 
I  know  your  cunning,  and  I  know  your  cause. 
He  that  faints  now,  shame  take  him  !    Put  thyself 
Upon  thy  present  guard  — 

Arc.  You  are  not  mad  ? 

Pal.  Or  I  will  make  th'  advantage  of  this  hour 
Mine  own  ;  and  what  to  come  shall  threaten  me, 
I  fear  less  than  my  fortune.    Know,  weak  cousin, 
I  love  Emilia  !  and  in  that  I'll  bury 
Thee,  and  all  crosses  else  ! 

Arc.  Then  come  what  can  come  ;2 

Thou  shall  know,  Palamon,  I  dare  as  well 
Die,  as  discourse,  or  sleep :  only  this  fears  me, 
The  law  will  have  the  honor  of  our  ends. 
Have  at  thy  life  ! 

Pal.  Look  to  thine  own  well,  Arcite  ! 

[Fight  again.    Horns. 

Enter  THESEUS,  HIPPOLYTA,  EMILIA,  PERITHOUS,  and 
Train. 

Thes.  What  ignorant  and  mad  malicious  traitors 
Are  you,  that,  'gainst  the  tenor  of  my  laws, 

1  That  is,  "  I  consider  it  the  best" 

l  I  would  omit  the  "  come"  at  the  close  of  this  line,  as  in- 
jurious to  the  verge,  and  not  necessary  to  the  sense. 


Are  making  battle,  thus,  like  knights  appointed, 
Without  my  leave,  and  officers  of  arms  ? 
By  Castor,  both  shall  die  ! 

Pal.  Hold  thy  word,  Theseus 

We're  certainly  both  traitors,  both  despisers 
Of  thee,  and  of  thy  goodness  :  I  am  Palamon, 
That  can  not  love  thee ;  — he  that  broke  thy  prison  ; 
Think  well  what  that  deserves !— and  this  is  Arcite ; 
A  bolder  traitor  never  trod  thy  ground, 
A  falser  ne'er  seemed  friend :  this  is  the  man 
Was  begged3  and  banished ;  this  is  he  contemns  thee 
And  what  thou  darestdo  ;  and,  in  disguise,* 
Against  thy5  known  edict,  follows  thy  sister, 
That  fortunate  bright  star,  the  fair  Emilia, 
(Whose  servant,  if  there  be  a  right  in  seeing, 
And  first  bequeathing  of  the  soul  to,  justly 
I  am  ;)  and,  which  is  more,  dares  think  her  his ! 
This  treachery,  like  a  most  trusty  lover, 
I  called  him  now  to  answer.    If  thou  be'est, 
As  thou  art  spoken,  great  and  virtuous, 
The  true  decider  of  all  injuries, 
Say,  "  Fight  again  !"  and  thou  shall  see  me,  Theseus, 
Do  such  a  justice,  thou  thyself  wilt  envy. 
Then  take  my  life  !  I'll  woo  thee  to't. 

Per-  Oh,  Heaven, 

What  more  than  man  is  this  ! 

Thes.  I've  sworn. 

•Arc.  We  seek  not 

Thy  breath  of  mercy,  Theseus  !    'Tis  to  me 
A  thing  as  soon  to  die,  as  thee  to  say  it, 
And  no  more    moved.     Where  this  man  calls  me 

traitor, 

Let  me  say  thus  much :  if  loves  be  treason, 
In  service  of  so  excellent  a  beauty, 
As  I  love  most,  and  in  that  faith  will  perish  ; 
As  I  have  brought  my  life  here  to  confirm  it  ; 
As  I  have  served  her  truest,  worthiest ; 
As  I  dare  kill  this  cousin,  that  denies  it ; 
So  let  me  be  most  traitor,  and  you  please  me. 
For  scorning  thy  edict,  duke,  ask  that  lady 
Why  she  is  fair,  and  why  her  eyes  command  me 
Stay  here  to  love  her  ;  and  if  she  say  "  traitor," 
I  am  a  villain  fit  to  lie  unburied. 

Pal.  Thou  shall  have  pity  of  us  both,  oh,  Theseus, 
If  unto  neither  thou  show  mercy  ;  stop, 
As  thou  art  just,  thy  noble  ear  against  us ; 
As  thou  art  valiant,  for  thy  cousin's  soul, 
Whose  twelve  strong  labors  crown  his  memory, 
Let's  die  together  at  one  instanl,  duke  ! 
Only  a  liltle  let  him  fall  before  me, 
Thai  I  may  tell  my  soul  he  shall  not  have  her. 

Thes.  I  grant  your  wish ;  for,  to  say  irue,  your 

cousin 

Has  ten  times  more  offended ; — for  I  gave  him 
More  mercy  than  you  found,  sir  ;  your  offences 
Being  no  more  than  his.    None  here  speak  for  ihem . 
For,  ere  the  sun  set,  both  shall  sleep  for  ever. 

Hip.  Alas,  the  pity !  now  or  never,  sister  ; 
Speak,  not  to  be  denied :  that  face  of  yours 
Will  bear  the  curses  else  of  after-ages, 
For  these  losl  cousins  ! 

3  He  was  admitted  to  mercy  at  the  instance  of  Princ* 
Perithous. 

4  Previous  copies  read  "in  thit  disguise." 
6  In  former  editions,  "  this  known  edict" 

6  According  to  former  copies,  "  if  in  lore." 


ACT  III.— SCENE  VI. 


33 


Emi.  In  my  face,  dear  sister, 

I  find  no  anger  to  them,  nor  no  ruin  ; 
The  misadventure  of  their  own  eyes  kills  them : 
Yet,  that  I  will  be  woman,  and  have  pity, 
My  knees  shall  grow  to  the  ground  but  I'll  get  mercy. 
Help  me,  dear  sister  !  in  a  deed  so  virtuous, 
The  powers  of  all  women  will  be  with  us. 
Most  royal  brother — 
Hip.  Sir,  by  our  tie  of  marriage  — 

Emi.  By  your  own  spotless  honor — 

Hip.  By  that  faith, 

That  fair  hand,  and  that  honest  "heart  you  gave  me — 

Emi.  By  that  you  would  have  pity  in  another, 
By  your  own  virtues  infinite  — 

Hip.  By  valor — 

By  all  the  chaste  nights  I  have  ever  pleased  you — 
Thes.  These  are  strange  conjurings ! 

Per.  Nay,  then  I'll  in  too : 

By  all  our  friendship,  sir  ;  by  all  our  dangers ; 
By  all  you  love  most,  wars,  —  and  this  sweet  lady — 

Emi.  By  that  you  would  have  trembled  to  deny, 
A  blushing  maid  — 

Hip.        By  your  own  eyes ;  by  strength, 
In  which  you  swore  I  went  beyond  all  women, 
Almost  all  men,  —  and  yet  I  yielded,  Theseus  — 

Per..  To  crown  all  this,  by  your  most  noble  soul, 
Which  can  not  want  due  mercy  !    I  beg  first. 

Hip.  Next  hear  my  prayers  ! 

Emi.  Last,  let  me  entreat,  sir  ! 

Per.  For  mercy  ! 

Hip.  Mercy ! 

Emi.  Mercy  on  these  princes ! 

Thes.  You  make  my  faith  reel :  say  I  felt 
Compassion  to  them  both,  how  would  you  place  it  ? 

Emi.  Upon  their  lives  ;  but  with  their  banishments. 

Thes.  You're  a  right  woman,  sister ;  you  have 
But  want  the  understanding  where  to  use  it.       [pity, 
If  you  desire  their  lives,  invent  a  way 
Safer  than  banishment :  can  these  two  live, 
And  have  the  agony  of  love  about  them, 
And  not  kill  one  another  ?    Every  day 
They'll  fight  about  you  ;  hourly  bring  your  honor 
In  public  question  with  their  swords :  be  wise  then, 
And  here  forget  them !  it  concerns  your  credit, 
And  my  oath  equally  :  I  have  said,  they  die  ! 
Better  they  fall  by  the  law  than  one  another. 
Bow  not  my  honor. 

Emi.  Oh,  my  noble  brother, 

That  oath  was  rashly  made,  and  in  your  anger ; 
Your  reason  will  not  hold  it :  if  such  vows 
Stand  for  express  will,  all  the  world  must  perish. 
Beside,  I  have  another  oath  'gainst  yours, 
Of  more  authority  ;  I'm  sure  more  love  ; 
Not  made  in  passion  neither,  but  good  heed. 

Thes.  What  is  it,  sister  ? 

Per.  Urge  it  home,  brave  lady  ! 

Emi.  That  you  would  ne'er  deny  me  anything 
Fil  for  my  modest  suit,  and  your  free  granting : 
I  tie  you  to  your  word  now  ;  if  you  fail  in't, 
Think  how  you  maim  your  honor ; 
(For  now  I'm  set  a-begging,  sir,  I'm  deaf 
To  all  but  your  compassion  !)  how  their  lives 
Might  breed  the  ruin  of  my  name's  opinion  J1 
Shall  anything  that  loves  me  perish  for  me  ? 

1  We  adopt  a  suggestion  of  M.  Mason.  The  original  has, 
*  name,  opinion."  Opinion  is  used  in  the  sense  of  reputa- 
tion. 


That  were  a  cruel  wisdom  !  do  men  prune 

The  straight  young  boughs  that  blush  with  thousand 

blossoms, 

Because  they  may  be  rotten?    Oh,  duke  Theseus, 
The  goodly  mothers  that  have  groaned  for  these, 
And  all  the  longing  maids  that  ever  loved, 
If  your  vow  stand,  shall  curse  me  and  my  beauty, 
And,  in  their  funeral  songs  for  these  two  cousins, 
Despise  my  cruelty,  and  cry  woe-worth  me, 
Till  I  am  nothing  but  the  scorn  of  women : 
For  Heaven's  sake  save  their  lives,  and  banish  them  .' 

Thes.  On  what  conditions  ? 

Emi.  Swear  them  never  more 

To  make  me  their  contention,  or  to  know  me, 
To  tread  upon  thy  dukedom,  and  to  be, 
Wherever  they  shall  travel,  ever  strangers 
To  one  another. 

Pal.  I '11  be  cut  to  pieces 

Before  I  take  this  oath  !    Forget  I  love  her? 
Oh,  all  ye  gods,  despise  me  then  !    Thy  banishment 
I  not  mislike,  so  we  may  fairly  carry 
Our  swords,  and  cause  along ;  else,  never  trifle 
But  take  our  lives,  duke  !    I  must  love,  and  will ; 
And  for  that  love,  must  and  dare  kill  this  cousin, 
On  any  piece  the  earth  has ! 

Thes.  Will  you,  Arcite, 

Take  these  conditions  ?  » 

Pal.  He's  a  villain  then  ! 

Per.  These  are  men  ! 

Arc.  No,  never,  duke  ;  'tis  worse  to  me  than  beg- 
To  take  my  life  so  basely.    Though  I  think      [ging, 
I  never  shall  enjoy  her,  yet  I'll  preserve 
The  honor  of  affection,  and,  dying*  for  her, 
Make  death  a  devil ! 

Thes.  What  may  be  done  ?  for  now  I  feel  compas- 
sion. 

Per.  Let  it  not  fall  again,  sir ! 

Thes.  Say,  Emilia, 

If  one  of  them  were  dead,  as  one  must,  are  you 
Content  to  take  the  other  to  your  husband  ? 
They  can  not  both  enjoy  you.    They  are  princes 
As  goodly  as  your  own  eyes,  and  as  noble 
As  ever  Fame  yet  spoke  of.    Look  upon  them, 
And  if  you  can  love,  end  this  difference  ! 
I  give  consent !  are  you  content,  too,  princes  ? 

Both.  With  all  our  souls. 

Thes.  He  that  she  refuses 

Must  die  then. 

Both.  Any  death  thou  canst  invent,  duke. 

Pal.  If  I  fall  from  that  mouth,  I  fall  with  favor, 
And  lovers  yet  unborn  shall  bless  my  ashes. 

Arc.  If  she  refuse  me,  yet  my  grave  will  wed  me, 
And  soldiers  sing  my  epitaph. 

Thes.  Make  choice  then  ! 

Emi.  I  can  not,  sir  ;  they're  both  too  excellent : 
For  me,  a  hair  shall  never  fall  of  these  men. 

Hip.  What  will  become  of  them  ? 

Thes.  Thus  I  ordain  it : 

And,  by  mine  honor,  once  again  it  stands, 
Or  both  shall  die  !  —  You  shall  both  to  your  country : 
And  each,  within  this  month,  accompanied 
With  three  fair  knights,  appear  again  in  this  place, 
In  which  I'll  plant  a  pyramid :  and  whether,* 
Before  us  that  are  here,  can  force  his  cousin 

s  All  other  editions  read,  «  and  die  for  her"— the  grammar 
and  sense,  seem  equally  to  require  the  alteration. 

3  "  When  either,"  which  might  be  abridged,  and  written 
thus — "  Whe'ther." 


34 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


By  fair  and  knightly  strength  to  touch  the  pillar, 
He  shall  enjoy  her ;  the  other  lose  his  bead, 
And  all  his  friends :  nor  shall  he  grudge  to  fall, 
Nor  think  he  dies  with  interest  in  this  lady : 
Will  this  content  ye  ? 

Pal.  Yes.    Here,  Cousin  Arcite, 

I'm  friends  again  till  that  hour. 

Arc.  I  embrace  you. 

Thes.  Are  you  content,  sister  ? 

Emi.  Yes :  I  must,  sir ; 

Else  both  miscarry. 

Thes.  Come,  shake  hands  again  then ; 

And  take  heed,  as  you're  gentlemen,  this  quarrel 
Sleep  till  the  hour  prefixed,  and  hold  your  course  ! 

Pal.  We  dare  not  fail  thee,  Theseus. 

Thes.  Come,  I'll  give  ye 

Now1  usage  like  to  princes,  and  to  friends. 
When  ye  return,  who  wins,  I'll  settle  here  ; 
Who  loses,  yet  I'll  weep  upon  his  bier.         [Exeunt 


ACT   IV. 

SCENE  I. 

Jjnter  GAOLER  and  a  Friend. 

Gaoler.  Hear  you  no  more  ?    Was  nothing  said  of 
Concerning  the  escape  of  Palamon  ?  [me 

Good  sir,  remember ! 

1  Friend.  Nothing  that  I  heard  ; 

For  I  came  home  before  the  business 
Was  fully  ended :  yet,  I  might  perceive 
Ere  I  departed,  a  great  likelihood 
Of  both  their  pardons  ;  for  Hippolyta, 
And  fair-eyed  Emily,  upon  their  knees, 
Begged  with  such  handsome  pity,  that  the  duke, 
Methought,  stood  staggering  whether  he  should  fol- 
His  rash  oath,  or  the  sweet  compassion  [low 

Of  those  two  ladies  ;  and,  to  second  them, 
That  truly  noble  prince,  Perithous — 
Half  his  own  heart  —  set  in  too,  that  I  hope 
All  shall  be  well :  neither  heard  I  one  question 
Of  your  name,  or  his  'scape. 

Enter  Second  Friend. 

Gaoler.  Pray  Heaven,  it  hold'so ! 

2  Friend.  Be  of  good  comfort,  man  !  I  bring  you 
Good  news.  [news, 

Gaoler.  They're  welcome. 

2  Friend.  Palamon  has  cleared  you, 

And  got  your  pardon,  and  discovered  how 
And  by  whose  means  he  'scaped,  which  was  your 

daughter's, 

Whose  pardon  is  procured  too  ;  and  the  prisoner 
(Not  to  be  held  ungrateful  to  her  goodness) 
Has  given  a  sum  of  money  to  her  marriage, 
A  large  one,  I'll  assure  you. 

Gaol.  You're  a  good  man, 

And  ever  bring  good  news. 

1  Friend.  How  was  it  ended  ? 

2  Friend.  Why,  as  it  should  be  ;  they  that  never 

begged 

But  they  prevailed,  had  their  suits  fairly  granted. 
The  prisoners  have  their  lives. 

1  I  Drefer  to  read  u  nev>  usage  like,"  &c. 


1  Friend.  I  knew  'twould  be  so 

2  Friend.  But  there  be  new  conditions,  which  you'L 

hear  of 
At  better  time. 

Gaoler.  I  hope  they're  good. 

2  Friend.  They're  honorable  ; 

How  good  they'll  prove,  I  know  not. 

Enter  WOOER. 

1  Friend.  'Twill  be  known 
Wooer.  Alas,  sir,  Where's  your  daughter  ? 
Gaoler.                                         Why  do  you  ask  ? 
Wooer.  Oh,  sir,  when  did  you  see  her? 

2  Friend.  How  he  looks  ! 
Gaoler.  This  morning. 

Wooer.        Was  she  well  ?  was  she  in  health,  sir  ? 
When*  did  she  sleep  ? 

1  Friend.  These  are  strange  questions. 

Gaoler.  I  do  not  think  she  was  very  well ;  for,  now 
You  make  me  mind  her,  but  this  very  day 
I  asked  her  questions,  and  she  answered  me 
So  far  from  what  she  was,  so  childishly, 
So  sillily,  as  if  she  were  a  fool, 
An  innocent !  —  and  I  was  very  angry. 
But  what  of  her,  sir  ? 

Wooer.  Nothing  but  my  pity ; 

But  you  must  know  it,  and  as  good  by  me 
As  by  another  that  less  loves  her. 

Gaoler.  Well,  sir? 

1  Friend.  Not  right  ? 

2  Friend.  Not  well  ? 

Wooer.  No,  sir ;  not  well : 

'Tis  too  true,  she  is  mad. 

1  Friend.  It  can  not  be. 

Wooer.  Believe,  you'll  find  it  so. 

Gaoler.  I  half  suspected 

What  you  have  told  me ;  the  gods  comfort  her ! 
Either  this  was  her  love  to  Palamon, 
Or  fear  of  my  miscarrying,  on  his  'scape, 
Or  both. 

Wooer.  'Tis  likely. 

Gaoler.  But  why  all  this  haste,  sir  ? 

Wooer.  I'll  tell  you  quickly.    As  I  late  was  ang- 
In  the  great  lake  that  lies  behind  the  palace,      [ling 
From  the  far  shore,  thick  set  with  reeds  and  sedges, 
As  patiently  I  was  attending  sport, 
I  heard  a  voice,  a  shrill  one  ;  and,  attentive, 
I  gave  my  ear  ;  when  I  might  well  perceive 
'Twas  one  that  sung,  and,  by  the  smallness  of  it, 
A  boy  or  woman.    I  then  left  my  angle 
To  his  own  skill ;  came  near,  but  yet  perceived  not 
Who  made  the  sound,  the  rushes  and  the  reeds 
Had  so  encompassed  it :  I  laid  me  down 
And  listened  to  the  words  she  sung ;  for  then, 
Through  a  small  glade  cut  by  the  fishermen, 
I  saw  it  was  your  daughter. 

Gaoler.  Pray  go  on,  sir ! 

Wooer.  She  sung  much,  but  no  sense  j  only  I  heard 
Repeat  this  often :  "  Palamon  is  gone,  [her 

Is  gone  to  th'  wood  to  gather  mulberries  j 
I  '11  find  him  out  to  morrow." 

1  Friend.  Pretty  soul ! 

Wooer.    "  His  shackles  will  betray  him,  he'll  be 
taken  ; 

a  We  might  read  with  quite  as  much  propriety  "  Whtrt 
did  she  sleep." 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  II. 


35 


And  what  shall  I  do  then  ?    I'll  bring  a  bevy, 
A.  hundred  black-eyed  maids  that  love  as  I  do, 
With  chaplets  on  their  heads,  of  daffodillies, 
With  cherry  lips,  and  cheeks  of  damask  roses, 
And  all  we'll  dance  an  antic  'fore  the  duke, 
And  beg  his  pardon."    Then  she  talked  of  you,  sir ; 
That  you  must  lose  your  head  to-morrow  morning, 
And  she  must  gather  flowers  to  bury  you, 
And  see  the  house  made  handsome  :  then  she  sung 
Nothing  but  "  Willow,  willow,  willow  ;"  and  between 
Ever  was,  "  Palamon,  fair  Palamon  !" 
Arid  "  Palamon  was  a  tall  young  man  !"    The  place 
Was  knee-deep  where  she  sat ;  her  careless  tresses, 
A  wreath  of  bulrush  rounded ;  'bout  her  stuck 
Thousand  fresh  water-flowers  of  several  colors  ; 
That  she,  methought  appeared  like  the  fair  nymph 
That  feeds  the  lake  with  waters,  or  as  Iris 
Newly  dropped  down  from  heaven  !    Rings  she  made 
Of  rushes  that  grew  by,  and  to  'em  spoke 
The  prettiest  posies  ;  "  Thus  our  true  love's  tied ;" 
"  This  you  may  loose,  not  me  ;"  and  many  a  one  : 
And  then  she  wept,  and  sung  again,  and  sighed, 
And  with  the  same  breath  smiled,  and  kissed  her 
hand. 

2  Friend.  Alas,  what  pity  'tis  ! 

Wooer.  I  made  in  to  her  ; 

She  saw  me,  and  straight  sought  the  flood.    I  saved 
And  set  her  safe  to  land  ;  when,  presently,         [her, 
She  slipped  away,  and  to  the  city  made, 
With  such  a  cry,  and  swiftness,  that,  believe  me, 
She  left  me  far  behind  her.     Three,  or  four, 
I  saw  from  far  off  cross  her ;  one  of  them 
I  knew  to  be  your  brother ;  where  she  stayed, 
And  fell,  scarce  to  be  got  away.    I  left  them  with 
her,i 

Enter  BROTHER,  DAUGHTER,  and  Others. 

And  hither  came  to  tell  you.    Here  they  are  ! 

Daugh. 

"  May  you  never  more  enjoy  the  light,"  &c. 
Is  not  this  a  fine  song  ? 

Broth.  Oh,  a  very  fine  one  ! 

Daugh.  I  can  sing  twenty  more. 

Broth.  I  think  you  can. 

Daugh.  Yes,  truly  can  I ;  I  can  sing  the  Broom, 
And  Bonny  Robin.    Are  not  you  a  tailor  ? 

Broth.  Yes. 

Daugh.         Where's  my  wedding-gown  ? 

Broth.  I'll  bring  it  to-morrow. 

Daugh.  Do,  very  rearly  ;2  I  must  be  abroad  else, 
To  call  the  maids,  and  pay  the  minstrels  ; 
For  I  must  lose  my  maidenhead  by  cocklight ; 
'Twill  never  thrive  else.  [Sings. 

"  Oh,  fair,  oh,  sweet,"  &c. 

Broth.  You  must  e'en  take  it  patiently. 

Gaoler.  >Tis  true. 

Daugh.  Good  e'en,  good  men  !     Pray  did  you  ever 
Of  one  young  Palamon  ?  [hear 

Gaoler.  Yes,  wench,  we  know  him. 

Daugh.  Is't  not  a  fine  young  gentleman  ? 

1  This  scene  is  a  very  obvious  imitation  of  the  story  of 
Ophelia,  though  with  a  less  touching  termination.  But  though 
quite  creditable  to  Fletcher,  as  an  imitation  of  Shakspeare, 
the  fact  that  it  is  an  imitation  should  be  conclusive  that 
Shakspeare  had  no  hand  in  it. 

2  Rearly — early.    Gay,  in  his  "  Shepherd's  Week,"  uses 
rear  as  a  provincial  word,  in  this  sense.    The  original  has 
rarely. 


Gaoler.  Tis  love  ! 

Broth.  By  no  means  cross  her ;  she  is  then  dis- 
Far  worse  than  now  she  shows.  [tempered 

1  Friend.  Yes,  he's  a  fine  man. 

Daugh.  Oh,  is  he  so  ?    You  have  a  sister  ? 

1  Friend.  Yes. 

Daugh.  But  she  shall  never  have  him ;  tell  her  so ; 
For  a  trick  that  I  know,  you  had  best  look  to  her, 
For  if  she  see  him  once,  she's  gone ;  she's  done, 
And  undone  in  an  hour.    All  the  young  maids 
Of  our  town  are  in  love  with  him ;  but  I  laugh  at  'em, 
And  let  'em  all  alone ;  is't  not  a  wise  course  ? 

1  Friend.  Yes.s 

Daugh.  They  come  from  all  parts  of  the  dukedom 
I'll  warrant  you.  [to  him : 

Gaoler.  She's  lost,  [she's]  past  all  cure  ! 

Broth.  Heaven  forbid,  man  ! 

Daugh.  Come  hither;  you're  a  wise  man. 

1  Friend.  Does  she  know  him  ? 

2  Friend.  No  ;  would  she  did ! 
Daugh.  You're  master  of  a  ship  ? 
Gaoler.  Yes. 

Daugh.  Where's  your  compass  ? 

Gaoler.  Here. 

Daugh.      ^        Set  it  to  the  north  ; 
And  now  direct  your  course  to  the  wood,  where  Pal- 
Lies  longing  for  me  ;  for  the  tackling  [amon 
Let  me  alone  :  come,  weigh,  my  hearts,  cheerly ! 

All.  Owgh,  owgh,  owgh  !  'tis  up,  the  wind  is  fair, 
Top  [with]  the  bowline  ;  out  with  the  mainsail ! 
Where  is  your  whistle,  master? 

Broth.  Let's  get  her  in. 

Gaoler.  Up  to  the  top,  boy. 

Broth.  Where's  the  pilot  ? 

1  Friend.  Here. 
Daugh.  What  kenn'st  thou  ? 

2  Friend.  A  fair  wood. 
Daugh.  Bear  for  it,  master  j  tack  about ! 

[  Sings. 
"  When  Cynthia  with  her  borrowed  light,"  &c. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  EMILIA,  with  two  pictures. 

End.  Yet  I  may  bind  those  wounds  up,  that  must 

open 

And  bleed  to  death  for  my  sake  else  :  I'll  choose, 
And.end  their  strife  ;  two  such  young  handsome  men 
Shall  never  fall  for  me  :  their  weeping  mothers, 
Following  the  dead-cold  ashes  of  their  sons, 
Shall  never  curse  my  cruelty.    Good  Heaven, 
What  a  sweet  face  has  Arcite  !     If  wise  Natuie, 
With  all  her  best  endowments,  all  those  beauties 
She  sows  into  the  births  of  noble  bodies, 
Were  here  a  mortal  woman,  and  had  in  her 
The  coy  denials  of  young  maids,  yet  doubtless 
She  would  run  mad  for  this  man.     What  an  eye  ! 
Of  what  a  fiery  sparkle,  and  quick  sweetness, 
Has  this  young  prince  !     Here   Love  himself  sits 
Just  such  another  wanton  Ganymede  [smiling. 

Set  Jove  afire,  and  [soon]  enforced  the  god 

3  We  omit  some  lines  here,  for  the  same  reason  as  vre 
have  previously  stated.    The  tendency  of  Fletcher  is  to  de- 
stroy his  own  high  merits  by  a  wanton  indulgence  in  pru- 
riency.   He  loses  nothing  by  occasional  omissions  ;   not, 
however,  regulated  by  over-fastidiousness. 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


Snatch  up  the  goodly  boy,  and  set  him  by  him 
A  shining  constellation  !     What  a  brow, 
Of  what  a  spacious  majesty,  he  carries  ; 
Arched  like  the  great-eyed  Juno's,  but  far  sweeter ; 
Smoother  than  Pelops'  shoulder !     Fame  and  Honor, 
Methinks,  from  hence,  as  from  a  promontory 
Pointed  in  heaven,  should  clap  their  wings  and  sing 
To  all  the  under-world,  the  loves  and  fights 
Of  gods  and  such  men  near  'em.    Palamon 
Is  but  his  foil ;  to  him,  a  mere  dull  shadow  ; 
He's  swarth  and  meager,  of  an  eye  as  heavy 
As  if  he'd  lost  his  mother  ;  a  still  temper, 
No  stirring  in  him,  no  alacrity ; 
Of  all  this  sprightly  sharpness,  not  a  smile. 
Yet  these  that  we  count  errors,  may  become  him: 
Narcissus  was  a  sad  boy,  but  a  heavenly. 
Ob,  who  can  find  the  bent  of  woman's  fancy? 
I  am  a  fool  —  my  reason  is  lost  in  me  ! 
I  have  no  choice,  and  1  have  lied  so  lewdly, 
That  women  ought  to  beat  me.     On  my  knees 
I  ask  thy  pardon,  Palamon  !     Thou'rt  alone, 
And  only,  beautiful ;  and  these  thine  eyes, 
These  the  bright  lamps  of  beauty,  that  command 
And  threaten  love  ;  and  what  young  maid  dare  cross 
What  a  bold  gravity,  and  yet  inviting,  ['em? 

Has  this  brown,  manly  face  !     Oh,  Love,  this  only 
From  this  hour  is  complexion.    Lie  there,  Arcite  ! 
Thou  art  a  changeling  to  him,  a  mere  gipsy, 
And  this  the  noble  body.— I  am  sotted, 
Utterly  lost !     My  virgin  faith  has  fled  me, 
For  if  my  brother  but  e'en  now  had  asked  me 
Whe'ther  I  loved,  I  had  run  mad  for  Arcite  ; 
Now,  if  my  sister,  more  for  Palamon.  [er ; — 

Stand  both  together  !     Now,  come,  ask  me,  broth- 
Alas,  I  know  not  !     Ask  me  now,  sweet  sister ; 
I  may1  go  look  !     What  a  mere  child  is  fancy, 
That,  having  two  fair  gawds  of  equal  sweetness, 
Can  not  distinguish,  but  must  cry  for  both  ! 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

How  now,  sir  ? 

Gent.  From  the  noble  duke,  your  brother, 

Madam,  I  bring  you  news :  the  knights  are  come  ! 

Emi.  To  end  the  quarrel  ? 

Gent.  Yes. 

Emi.  Would  I  might  end  first ! 

What  sins  have  I  committed,  chaste  Diana, 
That  my  unspotted  youth  must  now  be  soiled 
With  blood  of  princes  ?  and  my  chastity 
Be  made  the  altar,  where  the  lives  of  lovers 
(Two  greater  and  two  better  never  yet 
Made  mothers'  joy)  must  be  the  sacrifice 
To  my  unhappy  beauty  ? 

Enter  THESEUS,  HIPPOLYTA,  PERiTHOus,and  Attend- 
ants. 

Thes.  Bring  them  in, 

Quickly,  by  any  means  !     I  long  to  see  them. — 
Your  two  contending  lovers  are  returned, 
And  with  them  their  fair  knights  :  now,  my  fair  sister, 
You  must  love  one  of  them. 

Emi.  I  had  rather  both, 

So  neither  for  my  sake  should  fall  untimely. 

Enter  Messenger. 
This.  Who  saw  them  ? 

1   Qu.t    ilutt? 


Per.  I,  awhile. 

Gent.  And  I. 

Thes.  From  whence  come  you,  sir  ? 

Mess.  From  the  knights. 

Thes.  Pray  speak, 

You  that  have  seen  them,  what  they  are. 

Mess.  I  will,  sir_ 

And  truly  what  I  think :  six  braver  spirits        [side,) 
Than  these  they've  brought  (if  we  judge  by  the  out- 
I  never  saw,  nor  read  of.    He  that  stands 
In  the  first  place  with  Arcite,  by  his  seeming 
Should  be  a  stout  man,  by  his  face  a  prince  ;  — 
His  very  looks  so  say  him ;  —  his  complexion 
Nearer  a  brown  than  black  ;  stern,  and  yet  noble, 
Which  shows  him  hardy,  fearless,  proud  of  dangers ; 
The  circles  of  his  eyes  show  fair2' within  him, 
And,  as  a  heated  lion,  so  he  looks ; 
His  hair  hangs  long  behind  him,  black  and  shining 
Like  raven's  wings  ;  his  shoulders  broad  and  strong  ; 
Armed  long  and  round  :  and  on  his  thigh  a  sword 
Hung  by  a  curious  baldrick.  when  he  frowns 
To  seal  his  will  with  ;  better,  o'  my  conscience, 
Was  never  soldier's  friend. 

Thes.  Thou  hast  well  described  him. 

Per.  Yet,  a  great  deal  short, 

Methinks  of  him  that's  first  with  Palamon. 

Thes.  Pray  speak  him,  friend. 

Per.  I  guess  he  is  a  prince  too, 

And,  if  it  may  be,  greater  ;  for  his  show 
Has  all  the  ornament  of  honor  in't. 
He's  somewhat  bigger  than  the  knight  he  spoke  of. 
But  of  a  face  far  sweeter  ;  his  complexion 
Is  (as  a  ripe  grape)  ruddy  ;  he  has  felt, 
Without  doubt,  what  he  fights  for,  and  so,  apter 
To  make  this  cause  his  own ;  in's  face  appears 
All  the  fair  hopes  of  what  he  undertakes  ; 
And  when  he's  angry,  then  a  settled  valor 
(Not  tainted  with  extremes)  runs  through  his  body, 
And  guides  his  arm  to  brave  things  ;  fear  he  can  not ; 
He  shows  no  such  soft  temper  ;  his  head's  yellow, 
Hard-haired  and  curled,  thick  twined,  like  ivy  tops, 
Not  to  undo  with  thunder  ;  in  his  face 
The  livery  of  the  warlike  maid  appears, 
Pure  red  and  white,  for  yet  no  beard  has  blessed  him ; 
And  in  his  rolling  eyes  sits  Victory, 
As  if  she  ever  meant  to  crown3  his  valor ; 
His  nose  stands  high,  a  character  of  honor, 
His  red  lips,  after  fights,  are  fit  for  ladies. 

Emi.  Must  these  men  die  too  ? 

Per.  WThen  he  speaks,  his  tongue 

Sounds  like  a  trumpet ;  all  his  lineaments 
Are  as  a  man  would  wish  them,  strong  and  clean  ; 
He  wears  a  well-steeled  axe,  the  staff  of  gold ; 
His  age  some  five-and-twenty. 

Mess.  There's  another. 

A  little  man.  but  of  a  tough  soul,  seeming 
As  great  as  any  ;  fairer  promises 
In  such  a  body  yet  I  never  looked  on. 

Per.  Oh,  he  that's  freckle-faced  ? 

Mess.  The  same,  my  lord : 

Are  they  not  sweet  ones  ? 

Per.  Yes,  they're  well. 

Mess.  Methiiks, 

t  Fair.  So  the  originals.  The  modern  reading  is  far  — 
implying  deep-seated  eyes.  Fair  may  be  received  in  the 
sense  of  clear. 

3  Crown — the  original  has  correct. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  III. 


37 


Being  so  few,  and  well-disposed,  they  show 
Great,  and  fine  art  in  Nature.    He's  white-haired, 
Not  wanton-white,  but  such  a  manly  color 
Next  to  an  auburn  ;  tough,  and  nimble  set, 
Which  shows  an  active  soul ;  his  arms  are  brawny, 
Lined  with  strong  sinews  ;  to  the  shoulder-piece 
Gently  they  swell,  like  women  new-conceived, 
Which  speaks  him  prone  to  labor,  never  fainting 
Under  the  weight  of  arms  ;  stout-hearted ;  still ; 
But,  when  he  stirs,  a  tiger ;  he's  gray-eyed, 
Which  yields  compassion  where  he  conquers  ;  sharp 
To.  spy  advantages,  and,  where  he  finds  'em, 
He's  swift  to  make  'em  his  ;  he  does  no  wrongs, 
Nor  takes  none  ;  he's  round-faced,  and  when  he  smiles 
He  shows  a  lover  ;  when  he  frowns,  a  soldier ; 
About  his  head  he  wears  the  winner's  oak, 
And  in  it  stuck  the  favor  of  his  lady  ; 
His  age,  some  six-and- thirty.     In  his  hand 
He  bears  a  charging-staff,  embossed  with  silver. 

Thes.  Are  they  all  thus  ? 

Per.  They're  all  the  sons  of  honor. 

Thes.  Now,  as  I  have  a  soul,  I  long  to  see  them  ! 
Lady,  you  shall  see  men  fight  now. 

Hip.  I  wish  it, 

But  not  the  cause,  my  lord :  they  would  show  [fight] 
Bravely,  about  the  titles  of  two  kingdoms. 
'Tis  pity  love  should  be  so  tyrannous. 
Oh,  my  soft-hearted  sister,  what  think  you? 
Weep  not,  till  they  weep  blood,  wench  !     It  must  be. 

Thes.  You've  steeled  'em  with  your  beauty.    Hon- 
ored friend, 

To  you  I  give  the  field  ;  pray  order  it, 
Fitting  the  persons  that  must  use  it ! 

Per.  Yes,  sir. 

Thes.  Come,  I'll  go  visit  them:  I  can  not  stay  — 
Their  fame  has  fired  me  so  —  till  they  appear  j 
Good  friend,  be  royal ! 

Per.  There  shall  want  no  bravery. 

Emi.  Poor  wench,  go  weep  ;  for  whosoever  wins, 
Loses  a  noble  cousin  for  thy  sins.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III. 
Enter  GAOLER,  WOOEH,  and  DOCTOR. 

Doctor.  Her  distraction  is  more  at  some  time  of  the 
moon  than  at  other  some,  is  it  not  ? 

Gaoler.  She  is  continually  in  a  harmless  distemper; 
sleeps  little,  altogether  without  appetite,  save  often 
drinking  ;  dreaming  of  another  world,  and  a  better  ; 
and  what  broken  piece  of  matter  soe'er  she's  about,  i 
the  name  Palamon  lards  it.  That  she  farces  every 
business  withal,— fits  it  to  every  question. 

Enter  DAUGHTER. 

Look,  where  she  comes  !  you  shall  perceive  her  be- 
havior. 

Daugh.  I  have  forgot  it  quite  ;  the  burden  on't  was 
"  down-a-down-a  ;"  and  penned  by  no  worse  man 
than  Giraldo,  Kmilia's  schoolmaster:  he's  as  fantas- 
tical too,  as  ever  he  may  go  upon's  legs  ;  for  in  the 
next  world  will  Dido  see  Palamon,  and  then  will  she 
be  out  of  love  with  ^Eneas. 

Doctor.  What  stuff's  here  ?  poor  sou] ! 

Ga  >ler.  Even  thus  all  day  long. 

Laugh.  Now  for  this  charm  that  I  told  you  of;  you 
mi'st  bring  a  piece  of  silver  on  the  tip  of  your  tongue, 


or  no  ferry  :  then  if  it  be  your  chance  to  come  where 
the  blessed  spirits  (as  there's  a  sight  now) ,  we  maids 
that  have  our  livers  perished,  cracked  to  pieces  with 
love,  we  shall  come  there,  and  do  nothing  all  day  long 
but  pick  flowers  with  Proserpine;  then  will  I  make 
Palamon  a  nosegay  ;  then  let  him  —  mark  me  —  then  ! 

Doctor.  How  prettily  she's  amiss  !  note  her  a  little 
further  ! 

Daugh.  Faith,  I'll  tell  you ;  sometime  we  go  to 
barley-break,  we  of  the  blessed ;  alas,  'tis  a  sore  life 
they  have  i'  the  other  place  !  If  one  be  mad,  or 
hang,  or  drown  themselves,  thither  they  go  ;  Jupiter 
bless  us  ! 

Doctor.  How  she  continues  this  fancy  !  'Tis  not 
an  engrafted  madness,  but  a  most  thick  and  profound 
melancholy. 

Daugh.  To  hear  there  a  proud  lady,  and  a  proud 
city-wife,  howl  together !  I  were  a  beast,  an  I'd  call 
it  good  sport  I1  [Sing*. 

"  I  will  be  true,  my  stars,  my  fute,"  &c. 

[Exit  DAUGHTER. 

Gaoler.  What  think  you  of  her,  sir  ? 

Doctor.  I  think  she  has  a  perturbed  mind,  which  I 
can  not  minister  to. 

Gaoler.  Alas,  what  then  ? 

Doctor.  Understand  you  she  ever  affected  any  man 
ere  she  beheld  Palamon  ? 

Gaoler.  I  was  once,  sir,  in  great  hope  she  had  fixed 
her  liking  on  this  gentleman,  my  friend. 

Wooer.  I  did  think  so  too  ;  and  would  account  I 
had  a  great  pennyworth  on't,  to  give  half  my  state, 
that  both  she  and  I  at  this  present  stood  unfeignedly 
on  the  same  terms. 

Doctor.  That  intemperate  surfeit  of  her  eye  hath 
distempered  the  other  senses  ;  they  may  return,  and 
settle  again  to  execute  their  preordained  faculties  ; 
but  they  are  now  in  a  most  extravagant  vagary. 
This  you  must  do  :  confine  her  to  a  pl;ice  where  the 
light  may  rather  seem  to  steal  in,  than  be  permitted. 
Take  upon  you  (young  sir,  her  friend)  the  name  of 
Palamon  ;  say  you  come  to  eat  with  her,  and  to  com- 
mune of  love  ;  this  will  catch  her  attention,  for  this 

i  We  have  again  been  compelled  to  employ  the  praninq;- 
knife.  Our  edition  i.s  for  general  readers,  as  well  as  for 
critical  students.  The  essential  difference  between  Shak- 
speare  and  Fletcher  makes  it  necessary  to  adopt  a  different 
course  with  reference  to  the  two  writers.  It  is  not  a  false 
reverence  for  Phakspeare  that  calls  upon  an  editor  to  leave 
his  text  unchanged  ;  hut  a  just  discrimination  between  the 
quality  of  what  is  offensive  in  him  and  in  other  writers  of 
his  a<?e.  Coleridge  has  defined  this  difference  with  his  usu- 
al philosophical  judgment :  "  Even  Shakspenre's  erossness 
— that  which  is  really  so,  independently  of  the  increase  in 
modern  times  of  vicious  associations  with  things  indifferent 
— (for  there  is  a  state  of  manners  conceivable  so  pure,  that 
the  lansniage  of  Hamlet  at  Ophelia's  feet  might  be  a  harmless 
rallying  or  playful  teazing,  of  a  shame  that  would  exi?t  in 
Paradise) — at  the  worst,  how  diverse  in  kind  is  it  from 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  !  In  Phakspeare  it  i.s  the  mere 
genemlities  of  sex,  mere  words  for  the  most  part,  seldom  or 
never  di.-tinct  images,  all  headwork,  and  fancy-drolleries ; 
there  is  nt>  sensation  supposed  in  the  speaker.  I  need  not 
proceed  to  contrast  this  with  Beaumont,  and  Fletcher  "* 

*  I  see  no  reason  to  disturb  the  opinions  or  depart  from 
the  rule  which  Mr.  Knight  has  prescribed  for  himself,  in  the 
exclusion  of  offensive  passages.  Certainly,  the  fancy  of  the 
gaoler's  daughter  is  not  that  of  Ophelia  ;  and  there  can  be 
no  better  illustration  of  the  author's  inferiority  as  an  artist, 
tlinn  in  the  sudden  change  in  her  character,  from  the  strong- 
willed  and  somewhat  coarse  rustic,  to  the  creature  of  such 
delicate  sensibilities  as  he  here  endeavors  to  describe  her.  It 
was  an  atter-thought  to  make  her  resemble  Ophelia.  In  the 
first  scenes  she  is  totally  unlike — indeed,  a  very  good  con- 
trast, were  it  our  cue  to  seek  one. 


33 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


her  mind  beats  upon  ;  other  objects,  that  are  inserted 
'tween  her  mind  and  eye,  become  the  pranks  and  frisk 
ings  of  her  madness  ;  sing  to  her  such  green  songs  of 
love,  as  she  says  Palamon  hath  sung  in  prison  ;  come 
to  her,  stuck  in  as  sweet  flowers  as  the  season  is  mis- 
tress of,  and  thereto  make  an  addition  of  some  other 
compounded  odors,  which  are  grateful  to  the  sense  : 
all  this  shall  become  Palamon,  for  Palamon  can  sing, 
and  Palamon  is  sweet,  and  every  good  thing ;  desire 
to  eat  with  her,  carve  for  her,  drink  to  her,  and  still 
intermingle  your  petition  of  grace  and  acceptance  in- 
to her  favor ;  learn  what  maids  have  been  her  com- 
panions and  play-heers  ;l  and  let  them  repair  to  her 
with  Palamon  in  their  mouths,  and  appear  with  to- 
kens, as  if  they  suggested  for  him :  it  is  a  falsehood 
she  is  in,  which  is  with  falsehoods  to  be  combated. 
This  may  bring  her  to  eat,  to  sleep,  and  reduce  what 
are  now  out  of  square  in  her,  into  their  former  law 
and  regimen  :  1  have  seen  it  approved,  how  many 
times  1  Know  not ;  but  to  make  the  number  more,  I 
have  great  hope  in  this.  I  will,  between  the  passages 
of  this  project,  come  in  with  my  appliance.  Let  us 
put  it  in  execution  ;  and  hasten  the  success,  which, 
doubt  not,  will  bring  forth  comfort. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT   V. 

SCENE  I. 

Enter   THESEUS,    PERITHOUS,   HIPPOLYTA,   and  At- 
tendants. 

Tfies.  Now  let  them  enter,  and  before  the  gods 
Tender  their  holy  prayers  !     Let  the  temples 
Burn  bright  with  sacred  fires,  and  the  altars 
In  hallowed  clouds  commend  their  swelling  incense 
To  those  above  us  !    Let  no  due  be  wanting ! 

f  Flourish  of  cornets. 

They  have  a  noble  work  in  hand,  will  honor 
The  very  powers  that  love  them. 

Enter  PALAMON,  AECITE,  and  their  Knights. 

Per.  Sir,  they  enter. 

'  Thes.  You  valiant  and  strong-hearted  enemies, 
You  royal  germane  foes,  that  this  day  come 
To  blow  that  nearness  out  that  flames  between  ye, 
Lay  by  your  anger  for  an  hour,  and,  dove-like, 
Before  the  holy  altars  of  your  helpers, — 
The  all-feared  gods — bow  down  your  stubborn  bodies ! 
Your  ire  is  more  than  mortal ;  so  your  help  be  ! 
And,  as  the  gods  regard  ye,  fight  with  justice  ! 
I'll  leave  you  to  your  prayers,  and  betwixt  ye 
I  part  my  wishes. 

Per.  Honor  crown  the  worthiest ! 

[Exeunt  THES.  and  Train. 

Pal.  The  glass  is  running  now  that  can  not  finish 
Till  one  of  us  expire  :  think  you  but  thus  ; 
That  were  there  aught  in  me  which  strove  to  show 
Mine  enemy  in  this  business,  wer't  one  eye 
Against  another,  arm  oppressed  by  arm, 
I  would  destroy  the  offender  ;  coz,  I  would, 
Though  parcel  of  myself  .'—Then  from  this  gather 
How  I  should  tender  you  ! 

1  Play  hten — playfellow*. 


Arc.  I  am  in  labor 

To  push  your  name,  your  ancient  love,  our  kindred 
Out  of  my  memory  ;  and,  i'  the  self-same  place, 
To  seat  something  I  would  confound  :  so  hoist  we 
The  sails  that  must  these  vessels  port*  even  where 
The  heavenly  Limiter  pleases  ! 

Pal.  You  speak  well : 

Before  I  turn,  let  me  embrace  thee.  cousir  ! 
This  I  shall  never  do  again. 
Arc.  One  farewell ! 

Pal.  Why,  let  it  be  so :  farewell,  coz  ! 
Arc.  Farewell,  sir . 

[Exeunt  PAL.  and  his  Knights. 
Knights,  kinsmen,  lovers,  yea,  my  sacrifices, 
True  worshippers  of  Mars,  whose  spirit  in  you 
Expels  the  seeds  of  fear,  and  th'  apprehension, 
Which  still  is  further  off  it,  go  with  me 
Before  the  god  of  our  profession  !    There 
Require  of  him  the  hearts  of  lions,  and 
The  breath  of  tigers,  yea,  the  fierceness  too  ! 
Yea,  the  speed  also  !  to  go  on,  I  mean, 
Else  wish  we  to  be  snails :  you  know  my  prize 
Must  be  dragged  out  of  blood  !  force  and  great  feat 
Must  put  my  garland  on,  where  she  will  stick 
The  queen  of  flowers  ;  our  intercession  then 
Must  be  to  him  that  makes  the  camp  a  cestron3 
Brimmed4  with  the  blood  of  men  ;  give  me  your  aid, 
And  bend  your  spirits  toward  him !  — 

[Theykr.eel. 

Thou  mighty  one,  that  with  thy  power  hast  turned 
Green  Neptune  into  purple  ;*  [whose  approach]6 
Comets  prewam  ;  whose  havoc  in  vast  field 
Unearthed  skulls  proclaim ;  whose  breath  blows  down 
The  teeming  Ceres'  foison  ;  who  dost  pluck 
With  hand  armipotent  from  forth  blue  clouds 
The  masoned  turrets  ;  that  both  mak'st  and  break's! 
The  stony  girths  of  cities  ;  me,  thy  pupil, 
Young'st  follower  of  thy  drum,  instruct  this  day 
With  military  skill,  that  to  thy  laud 
I  may  advance  my  streamer,  and  by  thee 
Be  styled  the  lord  o'the  day  !     Give  me,  great  Mars, 
Some  token  of  thy  pleasure ! 

[Here  they  fall  on  their  faces  as  formerly,  and  there  is 
heard  clanging  of  armor,  wiM  a  short  thunder,  as 
the  burst  of  a  battle,  whereupon  they  all  rise,  and 
bow  to  the  altar. 

Oh,  great  corrector  of  enormous  times, 
Shaker  of  o'er-rank  states,  thou  grand  decider 
Of  dusty  and  old  titles,  that  healest  with  blood 
The  earth  when  it  is  sick,  and  curest  the  world 
Of  the  plurisy7  of  people  ;  I  do  take 
Thy  signs  auspiciously,  and  in  thy  name 
To  my  design  march  boldly.    Let  us  go  ! 

[Exeunt. 

9  Seward  reads  "part,"  a  reading  that  seems  more  obvious 
without  being  quite  eo  certain.  The  port  at  which  these 
vessels  must  arrive,  would  seem  to  be  necessarily  indicated 
by  the  reference  to  the  heavenly  "  Limiter"— it  is  to  th« 
limit  of  the  voyage  that  he  alludes. 

3  Ceston  I  suppose  to  be  the  proper  word — i.  e.,  "  a  stud- 
ded girdle" — a  not  inappropriate  figure  descriptive  of  the 
ring,  or  circle  of  spectators  assembled  to  behold  the  fight. 

•*  Some  of  the  old  copies  read  "primed"  for  "brimmed." 

6  "  Making  the  green  one  red." 

6  The  words  in  brackets  are  not  in  the  original  copies,  but 
were  added  by  Seward.  As  something  is  evidently  wanting, 
the  addition  is  judicious. 

^  Plurisy— used  by  the  old  poets  for  fulness.* 

*  And  yet,  as  to  let  blood  was  to  cure  pleurisy,  the  invo- 
cation to  Mars,  for  this  object,  might  have  no  soft  of  refer- 
ence to  the  world's  repletion.  Mars  was  the  great  bleeder. 


ACT  V.— SCENE  I. 


39 


Enter  PALAMON  and  his  Knights,  with  the  former  ob- 
servance. 

Pal.  Our  stars  must  glister  with  new  fire,  or  be 
To-day  extinct :  our  argument  is  love, 
Which  if  the  goddess  of  it  grant,  she  gives 
Victory  too  :  then  blend  your  spirits  with  mine, 
You,  whose  free  nobleness  do  make  my  cause 
Your  personal  hazard  !    To  the  goddess  Venus 
Commend  we  our  proceeding,  and  implore 
Her  power  unto  our  party  ! 

[Here  they  kneel. 

Ha7.,  sovereign  queen  of  secrets  !  who  hast  power 
To  call  the  fiercest  tyrant  from  his  rage, 
To  weep  unto1  a  girl ;  that  hast  the  might 
Even  with  an  eye-glance  to  choke  Mars's  drum, 
And  turn  th'  alarm  to  whispers  ;  that  canst  make 
A  cripple  flourish  with  his  crutch,  and  cure  him 
Before  Apollo  ;  that  mayst  force  the  king 
To  be  his  subjects'  vassal,  and  induce 
Stale  gravity  to  dance  ;  the  polled2  bachelor 
(Whose  youth,  like  wanton  boys  through  bonfires, 
Have  skipped  thy  flame)  at  seventy  thou  canst  catch, 
And  make  him,  to  the  scorn  of  his  hoarse  throat, 
Abuse  young  lays  of  love.    What  godlike  power 
Hast  thou  not  power  upon?    To  Phoebus  thou 
Add'st  flames,  hotter  than  his  ;  the  heavenly  fires 
Did  scorch  his  mortal  son,  thine  him ;  the  huntress, 
All  moist  and  cold,  some  say,  began  to  throw 
Her  bow  away,  and  sigh  ;  take  to  thy  grace 
Me  thy  vowed  soldier !  who  do  bear  thy  yoke 
As  'twere  a  wreath  of  roses,  yet  it  is 
Heavier  than  lead  itself,  stings  more  than  nettles  : 
I've  never  been  foul-mouthed  against  thy  law  ; 
Ne'er  revealed  secret,  for  I  knew  none ;  would  not 
Had  I  kenned  all  that  were.     I  never  practised 
Upon  man's  wife,  nor  would  the  libels  read 
Of  liberal  wits  ;  I  never  at  great  feasts 
Sought  to  betray  a  beauty,  but  have  blushed 
At  simpering  sirs  that  did.    I  have  been  harsh 
To  large  confessors,  and  have  hotly  asked  them 
If  they  had  mothers?  —  I  had  one,  a  woman, 
And  women  'twere  they  wronged.    I  knew  a  man 
Of  eighty  winters  (this  I  told  them),  who 
A  lass  of  fourteen  brided  ;  'twas  thy  power 
To  put  life  into  dust ;  the  aged  cramp 
Had  screwed  his  square  foot  round ; 
The  gout  had  knit  his  fingers  into  knots, 
Torturing  convulsions  from  his  globy  eyes 
Had  almost  drawn  their  spheres,  that  what  was  life, 
In  him,  seemed  torture  ;  this  anatomy 
Had,  by  his  young  fair  pheer,  a  boy,  and  I 
Believed  it  was  his,  for  she  swore  it  was, 
And  who  would  not  believe  her  ?    Brief,  I  am 
To  those  that  prate,  and  have  done,  no  companion ; 
To  those  that  boast,  and  have  not,  a  defier  ; 
To  those  that  would,  and  can  not,  a  rejoicer  ;' 
Yea,  him  I  do  not  love  that  tells  close  offices 
The  foulest  way,  nor  names  concealments  in 

1  Theobald  reads  "  intn"  instead  of  "  unto,"  which  I  think 
the  far   preferable  reading.    To   weep  unto  a  girl  seems 
scarcely  to  convey  the  intended  idea. 

2  Thus  the  old  copy,  but  that  the  bachelor  should  be 
polleii,  is  a  matter  of  course.    Perhaps  we  should  read,  the 
'•  buld  bachelor,"  or  the  "poll-bald"  bachelor.     Either  reading 
will  meet  the  wants  of  the  sense. 

s  I  leave  this  passage  as  I  find  it,  but  would  suggest  the 
reading  as  follows,  by  which,  changing  the  word  "  defier" 


The  boldest  language :  such  a  one  I  am  [not4] 

And  vow  that  lover  never  yet  made  sigh 

Truer  than  I.    Oh,  then,  most  soft  sweet  goddess, 

Give  me  the  victory  of  this  question,  which 

Is  true  love's  merit,8  and  bless  me  with  a  sign 

Of  thy  great  pleasure ! 

[Here  music  is  heard,  doves  are  seen  to  flutter  ;  they 

fall  again  upon  their  faces,  then  on  their  knees. 
Oh,  thou  that  from  eleven  to  ninety  reign'st 
In  mortal  bosoms,  whose  chase  is  this  [whole]  world, 
And  we  in  herds  thy  game,  I  give  thee  thanks 
For  this  fair  token,  —  which  being  laid  unto 
Mine  innocent  true  heart,  arms,  in  assurance, 

[  They  bow. 

My  body  to  this  business.    Let  us  rise 
And  bow  before  the  goddess  !    Time  comes  on. 

[Exeunt, 
[Still  music  of  records. 

Enter  EMILIA  in  white,  her  hair  about  her  shoulders,  a 
wheaten  wreath  ;  one  in  white  holding  up  her  train, 
her  hair  stuck  with  flowers ;  one  before  her  carrying 
a  silver  hind,  in  which  is  conveyed  incense  and  sweet 
odors,  which  being  set  upon  the  altar,  her  Maids 
standing  aloof,  she  sets  fire  to  it ;  then  they  courtesy 
and  kneel. 

Emi.  Oh,   sacred,  shadowy,  cold,  and  constant 
Abandoner  of  revels,  mute,  contemplative,     [queen, 
Sweet,  solitary,  white  as  chaste,  and  pure 
As  wind-fanned  snow,  who,  to  thy  female  knights, 
Allow'st  no  more  blood  than  will  make  a  blush, 
Which  is  their  order's  robe  ;  I  here,  thy  priest, 
Am  humbled  'fore  thine  altar.    Oh,  vouchsafe, 
With  that  thy  rare  green^  eye,  which  never  yet 
Beheld  thing  maculate,  look  on  thy  virgin  ! 
And,  sacred  silver  mistress,  lend  thine  ear 
(Which  ne'er  heard  scurril  term,  into  whose  port 
Ne'er  entered  wanton  sound)  to  my  petition, 
Seasoned  with  holy  fear  !     This  is  my  last 
Of  vestal  office  ;  I'm  bride-habited, 
But  maiden-hearted  ;  a  husband  I've  appointed, 
But  do  not  know  him ;  out  of  two  I  should 
Choose  one,  and  pray  for  his  success,  but  I 
Am  guiltless  of  election  of  mine  eyes. 
Were  I  to  lose  one  (they  are  equal  precious) , 
I  could  doom  neither ;  that  which  perished  should 
Go  to't  unsentenced :  therefore,  most  modest  queen, 
He,  of  the  two  pretenders,  that  best  loves  me, 
And  has  the  truest  title  in't,  let  him 

into  "  desire,"  it  appears  to  me  we  compass  and  supply  all  its 
deficiencies  :— 

"  Brief  I  am, 

To  those  that  prate  and  have  done  ;*  no  companion 
To  those  that  boast,  and  have  not  a  desire ; 
To  those  that  would  and  can  not,  a  rejoicer  ;"t  &c. 

*  That  ia,  to  those  that  prate  only,  and  do  no  more  than 
prate. 

t  That  is,  doing  for  them  what  they  desire  to  have  done, 
and  can  not  do  for  themselves.  The  prayer  is  to  Venus. 
The  difficulty  is  in  saying  those  things  it  might  be  grateful 
to  hear,  yet  which  decency  would  not  suffer  to  be  spoken 
except  ambiguously. 

*  The  sense  seems  to  demand  the  negative  in  this  place. 

5  "  Meed,"  perhaps. 

6  A  green  eye  for  Diana  is  something  of  a  novelty.    For 
"rare  green,"  Seward  reads  "rare  sheen,"  which  does  not 
greatly  help  the  matter.    Why  not  "  rare  seen" — which  ap- 
plied to  chastity  would  be  proper  enough  1    But  is  it  not 
possible  that  "  virgin"  has,  by  the  rare  faculty  which  typea 
nave  of  perversion,  been  converted  into  those  two  strangely 
misplaced  words. 


40 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


Take  off  my  wheaten  garland,  or  else  grant 
The  file  and  quality  I  hold,  I  may 
Continue  in  thy  band ! 

[H*re  the  hind  vanishes  under  the  altar,  and  in  the 

place  ascends  a  rose-tree,  having  one  rose  upon  it. 
See  what  our  general  of  ebbs  and  flows 
Out  from  the  bowels  of  her  holy  altar 
With  sacred  act  advances  !    But  one  rose  ? 
If  well  inspired,  this  battle  shall  confound 
Both  these  brave  knights,  and  I  a  virgin  flower 
Must  grow  alone  unplucked. 

[Here  is  heard  a  sudden  tunng  of  instruments, 

and  the  rose  falls  from  the  tree. 

The  flower  is  fall'n,  the  tree  descends  !   Oh,  mistress, 
Thou  here  discharges!  me  ;  I  shall  be  gathered ; 
I  think  so  ;  but  I  know  not  thine1  own  will : 
Unclasp  thy  mystery  !  —  I  hope  she's  pleased ; 
Her  signs  were  gracious. 

[They  courtesy,  and  exeunt. 

SCENE  II. 

Enter  DOCTOR,  GAOLER,  and  WOOEH   (in  habit  of 
PALAMON). 

Doctor.  Has  this  advice  I  told  you 

Done  any  good  upon  her  ? 

Wooer.  Oh.  very  much  : 

The  maids  that  kept  her  company, 
Have  half  persuaded  her  that  I  am  Palamon  ; 
Within  this  half-hour  she  came  smiling  to  me, 
And  asked  me  what  I'd  eat,  and  when  I'd  kiss  her: 
I  told  her  presently,  and  kissed  her  twice. 

Doctor.  'Twas  well  done  !  twenty  times  had  been 

far  better ; 
For  there  the  cure  lies  mainly. 

Wooer.  Then  she  told  me 

She'd  watch  with  me  to-night,  for  well  she  knew 
What  hour  my  fit  would  take  me. 

Doctor.  Let  her  do  so. 

Wooer.  She'd  have  me  sing. 

Doctor.  You  did  so  ? 

Wooer.  No. 

Doctor.  'Twas  very  ill  done,  then  : 
You  should  observe  her  every  way. 

Wooer.  Alas ! 

I  have  no  voice,  sir,  to  confirm  her  that  way. 

Doctor.  That's  all  one,  if  you  [only]  make  a  noise : 
Pray  bring  her  in,  and  let's  see  how  she  is. 

Gaoler.  I  will,  and  tell  her  Palamon  stays  for  her. 

[Exit. 

Doctor.  How  old  is  she  ? 

Wooer.  She's  eighteen. 

Doctor.  She  may  be ; 

But  that's  all  one,  'tis  nothing  to  our  purpose.3 

jfe 

Enter  GAOLER,  DAUGHTER,  and  MAID. 
mm 

Gaoler.  Come  ;  your  love  Palamon  stays  for  you, 
And  has  done  this  long  hour,  to  visit  you.  [child  ; 

Daugh.  I  thank  him  for  his  gentle  patience  ; 
He's  a  kind  gentleman,  and  I'm  much  bound  to  him. 
Did  you  ne'er  see  the  horse  he  gave  me  ? 

Gaoler.  Yes. 

1  Query :     mine  ? 

9  Mr.  Knight  has  taken  large  liberties  in  lopping  off  por- 
tions of  this  scene,  on  the  score  of  its  obscenities.  It  is  for- 
tunate that  the  portions  thus  exscinded,  are  as  dull  as  they 
we  vicious.  We  lose  nothing. 


Daugh.  How  do  you  like  him? 

Gaoler.  He's  a  very  fair  one. 

Daugh.  You  never  saw  him  dance  ? 

Gaoler.  No. 

Daugh.  I  have  often : 

He  dances  very  finely,  very  come[li]ly ; 
And,  for  a  jig,  come  cut  and  long  tail  to  him ! 
He  turns  you  like  a  top. 

Gaoler.  That's  fine  indeed. 

Daugh.  He'll  dance  the  morris  twenty  miles  an 

hour, 

And  that  will  founder  the  best  hobby-horse 
(If  I  have  any  skill)  in  all  the  parish : 
And  gallops  to  the  tune  of  "  Light  o'love-." 
What  think  you  of  this  horse  ? 

Gaoler.  Having  these  virtues, 

I  think  he  might  be  brought  to  play  at  tennis. 

Daugh.  Alas,  that's  nothing. 

Gaoler.  Can  he  write  and  read  too  ? 

Daugh.  A  very  fair  hand ;  and  casts  himself  the 

accounts 

Of  all  his  hay  and  provender :  that  ostler 
Must  rise  betime  that  cozens  him.     You  know 
The  chestnut  mare  the  duke  has  ? 

Gaoler.  Very  well. 

Daugh.  She's  horribly  in  love  with  him,  poor 
But  he  is  like  his  master,  coy  and  scornful,  [beast  ; 

Gaoler.  What  do  wry  has  she  ? 

Daugh.  Some  two  hundred  bottles 

And  twenty  strike  of  oats :  but  he'll  ne'er  have  her ; 
He  lisps  in's  neighing,  able  to  entice 
A  miller's  mare  ;  he'll  be  the  death  of  her. 

Doctor.  What  stuff  she  utters ! 

Gaoler.  Make  courtesy ;  here  your  love  comes  ! 

Wooer.  Pretty  soul, 

How  do  you  ?    That's  a  fine  maid  !  there's  a  court- 
esy ! 

Daugh.  Yours  to  command  i'  the  way  of  honesty. 
How  far  is't  now  to  the  end  o'  the  world,  my  mas- 
ters? 

Doctor.  Why,  a  day's  journey,  wench. 

Daugh.  Will  you  go  with  me  ? 

Wooer.  What  shall  we  do  there,  wench  ? 

Daugh.  Why,  play  at  stool-ball, 

What  is  there  else  to  do  ? 

Wooer.  I  am  content, 

If  we  shall  keep  our  wedding  there. 

Daugh.  'Tis  true ; 

For  there  I  will  assure  you  we  shall  find 
Some  blind  priest  for  the  purpose,  that  will  venture 
To  marry  us,  for  here  they're  nice  and  foolish  ; 
Besides,  my  father  must  be  hanged  to-morrow, 
And  that  would  be  a  blot  i'  the  business. 
Are  not  you  Palamon  ? 

Wooer.  Do  you  not  know  me  ? 

Daugh.  Yes ;  but  you  care  not  for  me :   I  have 

nothing 
But  this  poor  petticoat,  and  two  coarse  smocks. 

Wooer.  That's  all  one  ;  I  will  have  you. 

Daugh.  Will  you  surely  ?3 

Wooer.  Why  do  you  rub  my  kiss  off? 

Daugh.  'Tis  a  sweet  one 

3  Here  again  occurs  one  of  Mr.  Knight's  omissions,  of 
which  he  says  nothing — indecencies  truly,  but  of  the  very 
sort  that  we  find  in  Hamlet,  and  scarcely  worse.  I  should 
not  scruple  to  restore  this  matter  were  it  at  all  necessary  to 
the  spirit  of  the  scene. 


ACT  V.— SCENE  III. 


41 


And  will  perfume  me  finely  'gainst  the  wedding. 
Is  not  this  your  cousin  Arcite  ? 

Doctor.  Yes,  sweetheart ; 

And  I  am  glad  my  cousin  Palamon 
Has  made  so  fair  a  choice. 

Daugh.  Do  you  think  he'll  have  me  ? 

Doctor.  Yes,  without  doubt. 

Daugh.  Do  you  think  so  too  ? 

Gaoler.  Yes. 

Daugh.  We  shall  have  many  children. — Lord,  how 

you're  grown ! 

i.Iy  Palamon  I  hope  will  grow,  too,  finely, 
Now  he's  at  liberty ;  alas,  poor  chicken, 
He  was  kept  down  with  hard  meat,  and  ill-lodging, 
But  I  will  kiss  him  up  again. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  What  do  you  here  ? 

You'll  lose  the  noblest  sight  that  e'er  was  seen. 

Gaoler.  Are  they  i'  the  field  ? 

Mess.  They  are : 

You  bear  a  charge  there  too. 

Gaoler.  I'll  away  straight,  * 

I  must  even  leave  you  here/ 

Doctor.  Nay,  we'll  go  with  you  j 

T  will  not  lose  the  fight. 

Gaoler.  How  did  you  like  her  ? 

Doctor.  I'll  warrant  you  within  these  three  or  four 

days 

I'll  make  her  right  again.    You  must  not  from  her, 
But  still  preserve  her  in  this  way. 

Wooer.  I  will. 

Doctor.  Let's  get  her  in. 

Wooer.  Come,  sweet,  we'll  go  to  dinner  j 

And  then  we'll  play  at  cards.1 

Daugh.  And  shall  we  kiss  top  ? 

Wooer.  An  hundred  times.2 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  III. 

Enter  THESEUS,  HIPPOLYTA,  EMILIA,  PERITHOUS,  and 
Attendants. 

Emi.  I'll  no  step  further. 

Per.  Will  you  lose  this  sight  ? 

Emi.  I  had  rather  see  a  wren  hawk  at  a  fly, 
Than  this  decision :  every  blow  that  falls 
Threats  a  brave  life  ;  each  stroke  laments 
The  place  whereon  it  falls,  and  sounds  more  like 
A  bell,  than  blade  :  I  will  stay  here  : 
It  is  enough  my  hearing  shall  be  punished 
With  what  shall  happen  ('gainst  the  which  there  is 
No  deafing) ,  but  to  hear,  not  taint  mine  eye 
With  dread  sights  it  may  shun. 

Per.  Sir,  my  good  lord, 

Your  sister  will  no  further. 

Thes.  Oh,  she  must : 

She  shall  see  deeds  of  honor  in  their  kind, 
Which  sometime3  show  well-pencilled :  Nature  now 


two  previous  instances. 

*  These  are  two  of  Mr.  Knight's  excluded  lines,  and  are 
only  objected  to  as  they  are  supposed  to  lead  to  worse. 

3  Seward  reads  for  "  sometime  show,"  "  Tune  will  show." 
Perhaps  the  addition  of  the  letter  "*"  to  sometime,  will 
answer  the  purpose.  The  duke  means  to  say  she  will  see 
in  reality  those  deeds  of  honor  which  she  has  only  seen  in 
pictures. 


Shall  make  and  act  the  story,  the  belief 
Both  sealed  with  eye  and  ear.    You  must  be  present ; 
You  are  the  victor's  meed,  the  price  and  garland 
To  crown  the  question's  title. 

Emi.  Pardon  me ; 

If  I  were  there,  I'd  wink. 

Thes.  You  must  be  there ; 

This  trial  is  as  'twere  i'  the  night,  and  you 
The  only  star  to  shine. 

Emi.  I  am  extinct ; 

There  is  but  envy  in  that  light,  which  shows 
The  one  the  other.    Darkness,  which  ever  was 
The  dam  of  Horror,  who  does  stand  accursed 
Of  many  mortal  millions,  may,  even  now, 
By  casting  her  black  mantle  over  both,' 
That  neither  could  find  [th'J  other,  get  herself 
Some  part  of  a  good  name  ;  and  many  a  murder 
Set  off  whereto  she's  guilty. 

Hip.  You  must  go. 

Emi.  In  faith,  I  will  not. 

Thes.  Why,  the  knights  must  kindle 

Their  valor  at  your  eye.    Know,  of  this  war 
You  are  the  treasure,  and  must  needs  be  by 
To  give  the  service  pay. 

Emi.  Sir,  pardon  me  ; 

The  title  of  a  kingdom  may  be  tried 
Out  of  itself. 

Thes.         Well,  well,  then,  at  your  pleasure  ! 
Those  that  remain  with  you  could  wish  their  office 
To  any  of  their  enemies. 

Hip.  Farewell,  sister  ! 

I'm  like  to  know  your  husband  'fore  yourself, 
By  some  small  start  of  time  :  he  whom  the  gods 
Do  of  the  two  know  best,  I  pray  them,  he 
Be  made  your  lot ! 

[Exeunt  THESEUS,  HIPPOLYTA,  PERITHOUS,  &c 

Emi.  Arcite  is  gently  visaged :  yet  his  eye 
Is  like  an  engine  bent,  or  a  sharp  weapon 
In  a  soft  sheath  ;  mercy  and  manly  courage 
Are  bedfellows  in  his  visage.    Palamon 
Has  a  most  menacing  aspect ;  his  brow 
Is  graved,  and  seems  to  bury  what  it  frowns  on  ; 
Yet  sometimes  'tis  not  so,  but  alters  to 
The  quality  of  his  thoughts ;  long  time  his  eye 
Will  dwell  upon  his  object ;  melancholy 
Becomes  him  nobly ;  so  does  Arcite's  mirth  ; 
But  Palamon's  sadness  is  a  kind  of  mirth, 
So  mingled,  as  if  mirth  did  make  him  sad, 
And  sadness,  merry  ;  those  dark4  humors  that 
Stick  misbecomingly  on  others,  in  him5 
Live  in  fair  dwelling. 

[Cornets.     Trumpets  sound  as  to  a  charge. 
Hark,  how  yon  spurs  to  spirit  do  incite 
The  princes  to  their  proof!    Arcite  may  win  me ; 
And  yet  may  Palamon  wound  Arcite,  to 
The  spoiling  of  his  figure.    Oh,  what  pity ! 
Enough  for  such  a  chance  .'    If  I  were  by, 
I  might  do  hurt ;  for  they  would  glance  their  eyes 
Toward  my  seat,  and,  in  that  motion,  might 
Omit  a  ward,  or  forfeit  an  offence, 
Which  craved  that  very  time  ;  it  is  much  better 

[Cornets.     Cry  uithin,  A  Palamon  ! 

4  Other  copies  read  "  darker  humors." 

6  Mr.  Seward  first  writes  "  on  him,"  and  is  followed  in  this 
reading  by  Mr.  Knight  I  can  not  doubt  that  we  should  say 
"  in  him."  They  are  merely  grafts  on  others,  in  bun  they 
are  native.  It  is  "  in  him,"  that  they  "  live  in  fair  dwelling." 


42 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


I  am  not  there  ;  oh,  better  never  bora 

Than  minister  to  such  harm !  —  What  is  the  chance  ? 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Sere.  The  cry's  a  Palamon. 

Emi.  Then  he  has  won.    'Twas  ever  likely : 
He  looked  all  grace  and  success,  and  he  is 
Doubtless  the  prim'st  of  men.    I  prithee  run, 
And  tell  me  how  it  goes. 

[Shout  and  cornets  ;  cry,  A  Palamon ! 

Sere.  Still  Palamon. 

Emi.  Run  and  inquire.    Poor  servant,  thou  hast 

lost! 

Upon  my  right  side  still  I  wore  thy  picture, 
Palamon's  on  the  left :  why  so,  I  know  not ; 
I  had  no  end  in't  else ;  chance  would  have  it  so. 

[Another  cry  and  shout  within,  and  cornets. 
On  the  sinister  side  the  heart  lies  :  Palamon 
Had  the  best-boding  chance.    This  burst  of  clamor 
Is  sure  the  end  o'  the  combat. 

Enter  Servant. 

Sere.  They  said  that  Palamon  had  Arcite's  body 
Within  an  inch  o'  the  pyramid  ;  that  the  cry 
Was  general,  a  Palamon  ;  but,  anon, 
The  assistants  made  a  brave  redemption,  and 
The  two  bold  tillers  at  this  instant  are 
Hand  to  hand  at  it. 

Emi.  Were  they  metamorphosed 

Both  into  one  !  —  Oh,  why?    There  were  no  woman 
Worth  so  composed  a  man  !    Their  single  share, 
Their  nobleness  peculiar  to  them,  gives 
The  prejudice  of  disparity,  value's  shortness, 

[Comets.    Cry  within,  Arcite,  Arcite  ! 
To  any  lady  breathing.* —  More  exulting ! 
Palamon  still ! 

Sere.  Nay,  now  the  sound  is  Arcite. 

Emi.  I  prithee  lay  attention  to  the  cry  ; 

[Cornets.   A  great  shout  and  cry,  Arcite,  victory ! 
Set  both  thine  ears  to  the  business. 

Sere.  The  cry  is 

Arcite,  and  victory  !    Hark  !  Arcite,  victory  ! 
The  combat's  consummation  is  proclaimed 
By  the  wind-instruments. 

Emi.  Half-sights  saw- 

That  Arcite  was  no  babe  !    God's  'lid,  his  richness 
And  costliness  of  spirit  looked  through  him ! — could 
No  more  be  hid  in  him  than  fire  in  flax, 
Than  humble  banks  can  go  to  law  with  waters, 
That  drift  winds  force  to  raging.    I  did  think 
Good  Palamon  would  miscarry ;  yet  I  knew  not 
Why  I  did  think  so  :  our  reasons  are  not  prophets, 
When  oft  our  fancies  are.    They're  coming  off: 
Alas,  poor  Palamon !  [Cornets. 

w 

Enter  THESEUS,  HIPPOLYTA,  PERITHOUS,  ARCITE  as 
Victor,  Attendants,  &c. 

Thes.  Lo,  where  our  sister  is  in  expectation, 
Yet  quaking  and  unsettled.    Fairest  Emilia, 

1  This  passage  is  very  obscure.  The  first  expression  is 
that  of  a  wish  that  the  two  should  be  resolved  into  one. 
But  the  speaker  instantly  checks  herself  exclaiming, "  Why 
should  I  wish  so,  when  there  were  no  woman  worth  so  com- 
posed a  man !"  The  single  shade  of  nobleness  peculiar  to 
each,  subjects  all,  however,  to  the  prejudice  of  disparity, 
and  makes  their  value  fall  short  of  the  wonderful  standard 
of  excellence  which  such  men  might  reasonably  desire  and 
assert 


The  gods,  by  their  divine  arbitrament, 
Have  given  you  this  knight :  he  is  a  good  one 
As  ever  struck  at  head.     Give  me  your  hands  ! 
Receive  her,  you ;  you  him ;  be  plighted  with 
A  love  that  grows  as  you  decay ! 

Arc.  Emilia, 

To  buy  you  I  have  lost  what's  dearest  to  me, 
Save  what  is  bought ;  and  yet  I  purchase  cheaply, 
As  I  do  rate  your  value. 

Thes.  Oh,  loved  sister, 

He  speaks  now  of  as  brave  a  knight  as  e'er 
Did  spur  a  noble  steed  ;  surely  the  gods 
Would  have  him  die  a  bachelor,  lest  his  race 
Should  show  i'  the  world  too  godlike  !    His  behavior 
So  charmed  me,  that  methought  Alcides  was 
To  him  a  sow*  of  lead :  if  I  could  praise 
Each  part  of  him  to  the  all  I've  spoke,  your  Arcite 
Did  not  lose  by't ;  for  he  that  was  thus  good, 
Encountered  yet  his  better.    I  have  heard 
Two  emulous  Philomels  beat  the  ear  o'  the  night 
With  their  contentious  throats  ;  now  one  the  higher, 
Anon  the  other ;  then  again  the  first, 
And*by-and-by  out-breasted,  that  the  sense 
Could  not  be  judge  between  them :  so  it  fared 
Good  space  between  these  kinsmen  ;  till  heavens  did 
Make  hardly  one  the  winner.    Wear  the  garland 
With  joy  that  you  have  won  !    For  the  subdued, 
Give  them  our  present  justice,  since  I  know 
Their  lives  but  pinch  them  ;  let  it  here  be  done. 
The  scene's  not  for  our  seeing :  go  we  hence, 
Right  joyful,  with  some  sorrow !    Arm  your  prize  :3 
I  know  you  will  not  lose  her.    Hippolyta, 
I  see  one  eye  of  yours  conceives  a  tear, 
The  which  it  will  deliver.  [Flourish. 

Emi.  Is  this  winning  ? 

Oh,  all  you  heavenly  powers,  where  is  your  mercy  ? 
But  that  your  wills  have  said  it  must  be  so, 
And  charge  me  live  to  comfort,  thus  unfriended, 
This  miserable  prince,  that  cuts  away 
A  life  more  worthy  from  him  than  all  women, 
I  should  and  would  die  too. 

Hip.  Infinite  pity, 

That  four  such  eyes  should  be  so  fixed  on  one, 
That  two  must  needs  be  blind  for't ! 

Thes.  So  it  is. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. 

Enter  PALAMON  and  his  Knights  pinioned,  GAOLER, 
Executioner,  and  Guard. 

Pal.  There's  many  a  man  alive  that  hath  out- 
lived 

The  love  o'  the  people ;  yea,  i'  the  self-same  state 
Stands  many  a  father  with  his  child :  some  comfort 
We  have  by  so  considering ;  we  expire, 
And  not  without  men's  pity ;  to  live  still, 
Have  their  good  wishes ;  we  prevent 
The  loathsome  misery  of  age  ;  beguile 
The  gout  and  rheum,  that  in  lag  hours  attend 
For  gray  approachers ;  we  come  tow'rd  the  gods 

*  "Pig"  of  lead  would  be  better  understood  by  the  mod 
eras,  unless  we  told  them  that  in  the  old  English  the  word 
"  sow"  was  sometimes  used  to  signify  "  head."  The  mean- 
ing is  that  Alcides  was  "  leaden-headed  to  him." 

3  Arm  your  prize— offer  your  arm  to  the  lady  you  have 
won. 


ACT  V.— SCENE  IV. 


Young,  and  unwappened,1  not  halting  under  crimes 
Many  and  stale  ;  that  sure  shall  please  the  gods 
Sooner  than  such,  to  give  us  nectar  with  them, 
For  we  are  more  clear  spirits.    My  dear  kinsmen, 
Whose  lives  (for  this  poor  comfort)  are  laid  down, 
You've  sold  them  too,  too  cheap. 

1  Knight.  What  ending  could  be 
Of  more  content  ?    O'er  us  the  victors  have 
Fortune,  whose  title  is  as  momentary 

As  to  us  death  is  certain ;  a  grain  of  honor 
They  tot  o'erweigh  us. 

2  Knight.  Let  us  bid  farewell ; 
And  with  our  patience  anger  tott'ring  fortune, 
Who,  at  her  certain'st,  reels  ! 

3  Knight.  Come  ;  who  begins  ? 
Pal.  Even  he  that  led  you  to  this  banquet  shall 

Taste  to  you  all.    Ah-ha,  my  friend,  my  friend  ! 
Your  gentle  daughter  gave  me  freedom  once  ; 
You'll  see't  done  now  for  ever.    Pray,  how  does  she  ? 
I  heard  she  was  not  well ,  her  kind  of  ill 
Gave  me  some  sorrow. 

Gaoler.  Sir,  she's  well  restored, 

And  to  be  married  shortly. 

Pal.  By  my  short  life, 

I  am  most  glad  on't !  'tis  the  latest  thing 
I  shall  be  glad  of;  prithee  tell  her  so  ; 
Commend  me  to  her,  and  to  piece  her  portion 
Tender  her  this. 

1  Knight.         Nay.  let's  be  offerers  all ! 

2  Knight.  Is  it  a  maid? 

Pal.  Verily,  I  think  so  ; 

A  right  good  creature,  more  to  me  deserving 
Than  I  can  'quite  or  speak  of ! 

All  Knights.  Commend  us  to  her. 

[Give  their  purses. 

Gaoler.  The  gods  requite  you  all, 

And  make  her  thankful ! 

Pal.  Adieu  !  and  let  my  life  be  now  as  short 
As  my  leave-taking.  [Lies  on  the  block. 

1  Knight.  Lead,  courageous  cousin ! 

2  Knight.  We'll  follow  cheerfully. 

[A  great  noise  within,  crying,  Run,  save,  hold  ! 

Enter  in  haste  a  Messenger. 
Mess.  Hold,  hold !  oh,  hold,  hold,  hold  !* 
Enter  PEHITHOUS  in  haste. 

Per.  Hold,  hoa  !  it  is  a  cursed  haste  you  made, 
If  you  have  done  so  quickly.  —  Noble  Palamon, 
The  gods  will  show  their  glory  in  a  life 
That  thou  art  yet  to  lead. 

Pal.  Can  that  be,' 

When  Venus  I've  said  is  false  ?    How  do  things  fare  ? 

Per.  Arise,  great  sir,  and  give  the  tidings  ear 
That  are  most  dearly  sweet  and  bitter ! 

Pal.  What 

Hath  waked  us  from  our  dream  ? 

1  Unwappened.  The  originals  have  unwappered.  Without 
knowing  exactly  the  meaning  of  the  word  wappened,  we 
would  receive  the  epithet  here  as  the  opposite  to  that  in  Ti- 
mon — 

"  That  makes  the  wappened  widow  wed  again."* 

*  Wappened,  according  to  Stevens,  from  wap,  futuo.  Wop- 
ping  is  quaking ;  i.  e.,  "  We  come  before  the  gods,  young 
and  without  fear."  But,  after  all,  the  word  may  be  "un- 
weaponed." 

t  Two  of  these  monosyllables  may  be  omitted  with  per- 
fect propriety,  and  to  the  improvement  of  the  rhythm. 


Per.  List  then  !    Your  cousin, 

Mounted  upon  a  steed  that  Emily 
Did  first  bestow  on  him  —  a  black  one,  owning 
Not  a  hair-worth  of  white,  which  some  will  say 
Weakens  his  price,  and  many  will  not  buy 
His  goodness  with  this  note  —  which  superstition 
Here  finds  allowance  :  —  on  this  horse  is  Arcite, 
Trotting  the  stones  of  Athens,  which  the  calkins' 
Did  rather  tell  than  trample  ;  for  the  horse 
Would  make  his  length  a  mile,  ift  pleased  his  rider 
To  put  pride  in  him  :  —  as  he  thus  went,  counting 
The  flinty  pavement,  dancing  as  'twere  to  music 
His  own  hoofs  made  (for,  as  they  say,  from  iron 
Came  music's  origin),  what  envious  flint, 
Cold  as  old  Saturn,  and,  like  him,  possessed 
With  fire  malevolent,  darted  a  spark  — 
Or  what  fierce  sulphur  else,  to  this  end  made, 
I  comment  not ;  —  the  hot  horse,  hot  as  fire, 
Took  toy  at  this,  and  fell  to  what  disorder 
His  power  could  give  his  will ;  bounds,  comes  on  end, 
Forgets  school-doing,  being  therein  trained, 
And  of  kind  manege  ;  pig-like*  he  whines 
At  the  sharp  rowel,  which  he  frets  at  rather 
Than  any  jot  obeys  ;  seeks  all  foul  means 
Of  boisterous  and  rough  jadery,  to  dis-seat 
His  lord  that  kept  it  bravely :  When  naught  served, 
When  neither  curb  would  crack,  girth  break,  nor  dif- 
fering plunges 

Dis-root  his  rider  whence  he  grew,  but  that 
He  kept  him  'tween  his  legs  ;  —  on  his  hind  hoofs, 
On  end,  he  stands, 

That  Arcite's  legs  being  higher  than  his  head, 
Seemed  with  strange  art  to  hang :  his  victor's  wreath 
Even- then  fell  off  his  head  ;  and,  presently, 
Backward  the  jade  comes  o'er,  and  his  full  poise 
Becomes  the  rider's  load.     Yet  is  he  living  ; 
But  such  a  vessel  'tis,  that  floats  but  for 
The  surge  that  next  approaches.    He  much  desires 
To  have  some  speech  with  you.    Lo,  he  appears  ! 

Enter  THESEUS,  HIPPOLYTA,  EMILIA,  ARCITE,  in  a 
chair. 

Pal.  Oh,  miserable  end  of  our  alliance  ! 
The  gods  are  mighty  !  —  Arcite,  if  thy  heart, 
Thy  worthy  manly  heart,  be  yet  unbroken, 
Give  me  thy  last  words  !     I  am  Palamon, 
One  that  yet  loves  thee  dying. 

Arc.  Take  Emilia, 

And  with  her  all  the  world's  joy.    Reach  thy  hand ; 
Farewell !  I've  told  my  last  hour.    I  was  false, 
Yet  never  treacherous.    Forgive  me,  cousin ! 
One  kiss  from  fair  Emilia !    It  is  done  : 
Take  her.    I  die  !  [Dies. 

Pal.  Thy  brave  soul  seek  Elysium  ! 

Emi.  I'll  close  thine  eyes,  prince  ;  blessed  souls  be 

with  thee ! 

Thou  art  a  right  good  man ;  and  while  I  live 
This  day  I  give  to  tears. 

Pal.  And  I  to  honor. 

Thes.  In  this  place  first  you  fought ;  even  very  here 
I  sundered  you :  acknowledge  to  the  gods 
Our  thanks  that  you  are  living. 
His  part  is  played,  and,  though  it  were  too  short, 

3  Calkins — hoofs. 

•*  The  image  is  a  very  vulgar  one,  and  the  line  lacks  a  syl- 
lable. "  Pigmy-like"  might  be  the  more  appropriate  read- 
ing. 


THE  TWO  NOBLE  KINSMEN. 


He  did  it  well :  your  day  is  lengthened,  and 
The  blissful  dew  of  heaven  does  arrose  you  ; 
The  powerful  Venus  well  hath  graced  her  altar 
And  given  you  your  love  ;  our  master  Mars 
Has  vouched  his  oracle,  and  to  Arcite  gave 
The  grace  of  the  contention :  so  the  deities 
Have  shown  due  justice.    Bear  this  hence  ! 

Pal.  Oh,  cousin, 

That  we  should  things  desire,  which  do  cost  us 
The  loss  of  our  desire  !    That  naught  could  buy 
Dear  love,  but  loss  of  dear  love  ! 

Thes.  Never  fortune 

Did  play  a  subtler  game  :  the  conquered  triumphs, 
The  victor  has  the  loss  ;  yet,  in  the  passage, 
The  gods  have  been  most  equal.    Palamon, 
Your  kinsman,  hath  confessed  the  right  o'  the  lady 
Did  lie  in  you ;  for  you  first  saw  her.  and 
Even  then  proclaimed  your  fancy.    He  restored  her, 
As  your  stolen  jewel,  and  desired  your  spirit 
To  send  him  hence  forgiven :  the  gods  my  justice 


Take  from  my  hand,  and  they  themselves  become 

The  executioners.    Lead  your  lady  off; 

And  call  your  lovers1  from  the  stage  of  death. 

Whom  I  adopt  my  friends  !     A  day  or  two 

Let  us  look  sadly,  and  give  grace  unto 

The  funeral  of  Arcite ; —  in  whose  end 

The  visages  of  bridegrooms  we'll  put  on, 

And  smile  with  Palamon  ;  for  whom  an  hour, 

But  one  hour  since,  I  was  as  dearly  sorry, 

As  glad  of  Arcite ;  and  am  now  as  glad, 

As  for  him  sorry.    Oh,  you  heavenly  charmers, 

What  things  you  make  of  us  !     For  what  we  lack 

We  laugh,  for  what  we  have  are  sorry ;  still 

Are  children  in  some  kind.    Let  us  be  thankful 

For  that  which  is,  and  with  you  leave  disputes 

That  are  above  our  question  !    Let's  go  off, 

And  bear  us  like  the  time  !  [Flourish.    Exeunt. 

1  Lovers— companions,  friends.* 

*  So  Mr.  Knight ;  and  yet,  if  written  "  followers,"  the 
sense  and  measure  would  be  equally  improved . 


TEE  END  OF  THE  TWO  NOBLE  KHfSXEN. 


INTRODUCTION 


TO 


THE     LONDON     PRODIGAL. 


THIS  comedy  was  first  published  in  1605,  with  the 
following  title  :  "  The  London  Prodigall :  as  it  was 
plaide  by  the  King's  Majestie's  Servants :  By  William 
Shakspeare.  London  :  Printed  by  T.  C.,  for  Nathan- 
iel Butler."  T.  C.  was  Thomas  Creede,  and  Nathan- 
iel Butler  was  the  bookseller,  who,  three  years  after- 
ward, published  King  Lear. 

"  Concerning  the  origin  of  this  play,  having  been 
ever  ascribed  to  Shakspeare,  I  have  not  been  able  to 
form  any  probable  hypothesis."  This  is  the  language 
of  Malone.  He  adds :  "  One  knows  not  which  most  to 
admire,  the  impudence  of  the  printer,  in  affixing  our 
great  poet's  name  to  a  comedy  publicly  at  his  own 
theatre,  of  which  it  is  very  improbable  that  he  should 
have  written  a  line,  or  Shakspeare's  negligence  of 
fame,  in  suffering  such  a  piece  to  be  imputed  to  him, 
without  taking  the  least  notice  of  it."  Reasoning 
according  to  all  common  modes,  one  would  be  apt  to 
admit  this  latter  fact  as  conclusive  of  the  authorship. 
It  is  certainly  an  argument,  to  which  the  mere  dispari- 
ty between  this  performance  and  those  which  the  com- 
mentators have  chosen  to  adopt  exclusively  as  Shak- 
peare's,  will  afford  an  insufficient  obstacle.  Schlegel 
says :  "  If  we  are  not  mistaken,  Lessing  pronounced 


this  piece  to  be  Shakspeare's,  and  wished  to  bring  it 
on  the  German  stage  j"  and  Lessing  was  one  of  the 
soundest  of  German  critics.  Tieck,  another  German, 
also  assigns  this  comedy  to  Shakspeare.  Hazlitt 
says  :  "  If  Shakspeare's  at  all,  it  must  be  among  the 
sins  of  his  youth."  Mr.  Knight,  while  analyzing  the 
plot  and  materiel,  and  comparing  these  with  the  un- 
questionable performances  of  Shakspeare,  rejects  the 
play  altogether. 

Without  urging  a  single  word  on  this  subject,  we 
content  ourselves  with  saying  that  its  crudities  are 
equally  great  as  a  work  of  thought  and  as  a  work  of 
art.  It  exhibits  a  very  immature  condition  of  mind 
on  the  part  of  the  writer.  The  invention,  the  verse, 
and  the  philosophy,  are  equally  humble.  It  was 
probably  the  work  of  a  youth  —  perhaps  a  boy  —  and 
that  boy  might  have  been  Shakspeare.  We  know 
nothing  more  utterly  absurd  than  this  habit  of  test- 
ing the  authorship  of  a  work  by  its  intrinsic  merits; 
applying  the  standards  formed  in  the  maturer  exhibi- 
tions of  a  great  genius,  to  the  crude  and  feeble  per- 
formances of  his  beginning.  But  we  have  dwelt  up- 
on these  generalities  already. 

The  comedy  is  not  wholly  devoid  of  merit     The 


46 


INTRODUCTION. 


ingenuity  of  the  father,  in  finding  excuses  for  the 
son's  profligacy,  is  exemplary.  The  very  reckless- 
ness and  utter  profligacy  of  the  son  himself,  howev- 
er faulty  as  a  conception  of  character,  has  yet  a  re- 
deeming something  in  his  desperate  hardihood.  It 
would  seem,  too,  that  the  excessive  overdrawing  of 
this  character  was  the  result  of  a  too  great  anxiety 
to  bring  out  that  of  the  weak  woman,  his  wife ;  whom 
our  author  probably  sought  to  make  another  "  Pa- 
tient Grissil."  The  scenes  in  which  she  appears,  and 
the  devotion  which  she  shows,  which  finally  works 
the  miracle  in  his  reformation,  are  not  wanting  in 
force  and  spirit.  Mr.  Knight  says,  harshly :  "  If 
Shakspeare  had  chosen  such  a  plot,  in  which  the 
sudden  repentance  of  the  offender  was  to  compensate 
for  the  miseries  he  had  inflicted,  he  would  have 
made  the  prodigal  retain  some  sense  of  honor,  some 
remorse  amid  his  recklessness  —  something  that 
would  have  given  the  assurance  that  his  contrition 
was  not  hypocrisy.  We  have  little  doubt  that  the 
low  moral  tone  of  the  writer's  own  mind  produced 
the  low  morality  of  the  plot  and  its  catastrophe.  We 
see  in  this  play  that  confusion  of  principles  of  which 


the  stage  was  too  long  the  faithful  mirror.  In  Shak- 
speare, the  partition  which  separates  levity  and  guilt 
is  never  broken  down ;  thoughtlessness  and  dishonor 
are  not  treated  with  equal  indulgence.  This  is  quite 
argument  enough  to  prove  that  Shakspeare  could  not 
have  written  this  comedy,  nor  rendered  the  least 
assistance  in  its  composition.  If  it  exhibited  any 
traces  of  his  wit  or  his  poetry,  we  should  still  reject 
it  upon  this  sole  ground."  And  if  we  argued  the 
case  with  reference  only  to  Shakspeare,  as  the  mature 
master-mind  of  ages,  rather  than  with  regard  to  the 
boy  who  was  just  beginning  his  apprenticeship,  we 
should  say  exactly  the  same  thing.  But  this  would 
be  very  idle.  These  old  plays,  if  Shakspeare's,  are 
from  his  "prentice  ban' ;"  and, with  all  deference  to 
the  commentator,  we  are  inclined  to  think  that  the 
"  prentice  han'  "  of  a  very  superior  and  original  ge- 
nius is  much  more  rude  and  awkward,  for  various  good 
reasons,  than  that  of  a  merely  talented  person.  But 
we  profess  to  determine  nothing  in  regard  to  the  au- 
thorship of  the  drama  before  us— only  to  suggest,  that 
the  reasons  which  render  other  editors  most  confident, 
are,  as  we  think,  of  no  sort  of  value  in  this  discussiou. 


THE  LONDON  PRODIGAL. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

FLOWERDALE,  senior,  a  merchant. 

MATTHEW  FLOWERDALE,  A**  son. 

FLOWERDALE,  junior,  brother  to  the  merchant. 

Sir  LAIJNCEI.OT  SPURCOCK. 

Sir  ARTHUR  GREENSHIELD,  a  military  \  ^n  ;ore  u^ 

°fficer>  [       Luce. 

OLIVER,  a  Devonshire  Clothier,  J 

WEATHERCOCK,  a  parasite  to  Sir  Launcelot  Spurcock. 

CIVET,  in  love  with  Frances. 

A  Citizen. 

DAFFODIL, 

ARTICHOKE, 

DICK  and  RALPH,  two  cheating  gamesters. 

RUFFIAN,  a  pander. 


'  servants  to  Sir  Launcelot  Spurcock. 


IELIA,       \ 

RANGES,  >  daughters  to  Sir  Launcelot  Spurcock. 

UCE,        ) 


DELIA, 

F 

LUCE 

Citizen's  wife. 


Sheriff's  officers  ;  Lieutenant  and  Soldiers  ;  Drawers 
and  other  Attendants. 

SCENE,  —  LONDON,  and  the  parts  adjacent. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.  —  London.    A  room  in  FLOWERDALE,  jun- 
ior's, house. 

Enter  FLOWERDALE,  senior,  and  FLOWERDALE,  junior. 

Flow.,  sen.  Brother,  from  Venice,  being  thus  dis- 
guised, 

I  come  to  prove  the  humors  of  my  son. 
How  hath  he  borne  himself  since  my  departure, 
I  leaving  you  his  patron  and  his  guide  ? 

Flow.,jun.  Faith,  brother,  so  as  you  will  grieve  to 
And  I  almost  ashamed  to  report  it.  [hear, 

Flow.,  sen.  Why,  how  is't,  brother?    What !  doth 

he  spend  beyond 
The  allowance  that  I  left  him  ? 

Flow.,  jun.  How  !  beyond  that !  [Ay]  and  far  more. 
Why,  your  exhibition's  nothing.  He  hath  spent 
that  and  since  hath  borrowed ;  protested  with  oaths ; 
alleged  kindred  to  wring  money  from  me  ;  [entreat- 
ing] "  by  the  love  I  bore  his  father,  —  by  the  fortunes 
[that]  might  fall  upon  himself  —  to  furnish  his  wants. 
That  done,  I  have  since  had  his  bond,  his  friend  and 


friend's  bond.  Although  I  know,  that  [what]  he 
spends  is  yours,  yet  it  grieves  me  to  see  the  unbridled 
wildness  that  reigns  over  him.1 

Flow.,  sen.  Brother,  what  is  the  manner  of  his 

life  ? 

How  is  the  name  of  his  offences  ?  If  they  do  not 
Altogether,  relish  of  damnation, 
His  youth  may  privilege  his  wantonness. 
I  myself  ran  an  unbridled  course  till  thirty ;  nay,  al- 
most till  forty  :  well !  you"  see  how  I  am  !  For  vice 
once  looked  into  with  the  eyes  of  discretion,  and 
well  balanced  with  the  weights  of  reason,  the  course 
past  seems  so  abominable,  that  the  landlord  of  him- 
self, which  is  the  heart  of  his  body,2  will  rather  en- 
tomb himself  in  the  earth,  or  seek  a  new  tenant  to  re- 
main in  him  p  which  once  settled,  how  much  better 
are  they  that  in  their  youth  have  known  all  these 
vices,  and  left  them,  than  those  that  know  little,  and 
in  their  age  run  into  them?  Believe  me,  brother, 
they  that  die  most  virtuous,  have  in  their  youth  lived 
most  vicious  ;  and  none  knows  the  danger  of  the  fire 
more  than  he  that  falls  into  it.  But  say,  how  is  the 
course  of  his  life  ?  let's  hear  his  particulars. 

Flow.,  jun.  Why,  I'll  tell  you,  brother:  he  is  a 
continual  swearer,  and  a  breaker  of  his  oaths ;  which 
is  bad. 

Flow.,  sen.  I  grant,  indeed,  to  swear  is  bad,  but  in 
not4  keeping  those  oaths  is  better.  For  who  will  set 
by  a  bad  thing  ?  Nay,  by  my  faith,  I  hold  this  rather 
a  virtue  than  a  vice  !  Well,  I  pray,  proceed. 

Flow.,  jun.  He's  a  mighty  brawler,  and  comes  com- 
monly by  the  worst. 

Flow.,  sen.  By  my  faith,  this  is  none  of  the  worst 
neither  ;  for  if  he  brawl  and  be  beaten  for  it,  it  will 
in  time  make  him  shun  it ;  for  what  brings  man  or 
child  more  to  virtue  than  correction  ?  What  reigns 
over  him  else  ? 

Flow.,  jun.  He  is  a  great  drinker,  and  one  that  will 
forget  himself. 

Flow.,  sen.  Oh!  best  of  all!  [since]  vice  should  be 
forgotten.  Let  him  drink  on,  so  he  drink  not  [in] 
churches.  Nay,  an  this  be  the  worst,  I  hold  it  rather 
a  happiness  in  him  than  any  iniquity.  Hath  he  any 
more  attendants  ? 

1  Much  of  this  is  in  a  clumsy  sort  of  rhythm,  and  may 
have  been  written  originally  in  verse.    The  employment  of 
an  occasional  particle  here  and  there,  and  the  dropping  of  a 
syllable,  would  easily  convert  it  into  rhythm  again. 

2  That  is,  the  heart  of  his  body  is  the  body's  landlord,  or 
ruler,  the  master  of  the  tenement. 

3  That  is,  in  shame  and  despair,  either  commit  suicide,  or 
change  his  character,  change  his  heart,  and  become  another 
sort  of  man. 

•*  The  old  copies  read,  "  not  in." 


48 


THE  LONDON  PRODIGAL. 


Flow.,  jun.  Brother,  he  is  one  that  will  borrow  of 
any  man. 

Flow.,  sen.  Why,  see  you,1  so  doth  the  sea ;  it  bor- 
rows of  all  the  small  currents  in  the  world,  to  increase 
himself. 

Flow.,jun.  Ay,  but  the  sea  pays  it  again,  and  so 
will  never  your  son. 

Flow.,  sen.  No  more  would  the  sea  neither,  if  it 
were  dry  as  my  son. 

Flow.,  jun.  Then,  brother,  I  see, 
You  rather  like  these  vices  in  your  son, 
Than  any  way  condemn  them. 

Flow.,  sen.  Nay,  mistake  me  not,  brother, 
For  though  I  slur  them  over  now  as  things 
[But]  slight  and  nothing,  his  crimes  being  in  the  bud, 
'Twould  gall  my  heart  they  ever  should2  reign  in  him. 

M.  Flow,  [knocking  within].  Ho!  who's  within; 
Ho! 

Flow.,  jun.  That's  your  son ;  he's  come 

To  borrow  more  money. 

Flow.,  sen.  For  (Sod's  sake  give  it  out 

[That]  I  am  dead.    See  how  he'll  take  it !    Say 
I've  brought  you  news  from  his  father.    I  have  here 

drawn 

A  formal  will,  as  it  were  from  myself, 
Which  I'll  deliver  him. 

Flow.,  jun.  Go  to,  brother  ;  no  more  ;  I  will. 

M.  Flow,  [within].  Uncle  !  where  are  you,  uncle? 

Flow., jun.  [aloud].  Let  my  cousin3  in  there. 

Flow.,  sen.  [hastily,  and  in  undertones] .  I  am  a  sail- 
or come  from  Venice,  and  my  name  is  Christopher. 

Enter  MATTHEW  FLOWERDALE. 

Flow.  By  the  Lord,  in  truth,  uncle 

Uncle.  In  truth  would  a-served,  cousin,  without  the 
Lord. 

Flow.  By  your  leave,  uncle,  the  Lord  is  the  Lord 
of  truth.  A  couple  of  rascals  at  the  gate,  set  upon 
me  for  my  purse. 

Uncle.  You  never  come,  but  you  bring  a  brawl  in 
your  mouth. 

Flow.  By  my  truth,  uncle,  you  must  needs  lend  me 
.en  pound. 

Uncle.  Give  my  cousin  some  small  beer  here. 

Flow.  Nay,  look  you,  you  turn  it  to  a  jest;  now,  by 
~this  light,  I  should  ride  to  Croydon  fair,  to  meet  Sir 
Launcelot  Spurcock ;  I  should  have  his  daughter 
Luce  ;  and,  for  scurvy  ten  pound,  a  man  shall  lose 
nine  hundred  threescore  and  odd  pounds,  and  a  daily 
friend  beside  ;  by  this  hand,  uncle,  'tis  true. 

Uncle.  Why,  anything  is  true  for  aught  I  know. 

Flow.  To  see  now  !  why  you  shall  have  my  bond, 
uncle;  or  Tom  White's,  James  Brock's,  or  Nick  Hall's, 
as  good  rapier  and  dagger  men,  as  any  [that]  be  in 
England ;  let's  be  damned  if  we  do  not  pay  you ; 
the  worst  of  us  all  will  not  damn  ourselves  for  ten 
pound.  A  pox  of  ten  pound. 

Uncle.  Cousin,  this  is  not  the  first  time  I  have 
believed  you. 

Flow.  Why,  trust  me  now,  you  know  not  what  may 
fall :  If  one  thing  were  but  true,  I  would  not  greatly 
care  ;  I  should  not  need  ten  pound ;  —  but  when  a 
man  can  not  be  believed,  —  there's  it. 

•1  Old  copy  reads  "  you  see." 
•  Previous  editions, "  should  ever." 

s  Nephew.  Cousin  formerly  was  used  in  the  sense  of 
Jdnsman. 


Uncle.  Why,  what  is  it,  cousin? 

Flow.  Marry  this,  uncle,  can  you  tell  me  if  the 
Kate  and  Hugh4  be  come  home  or  no  ? 

Uncle.  Ay,  marry,  is't. 

Flow.  By  God !  I  thank  you  for  that  news. 
What,  is't  in  the  pool,  can  you  tell? 

Uncle.  It  is  ;  what  of  that? 

Flow.  What  ?  —  why  then  I  have  six  pieces  of  vel- 
vet sent  me  —  I'll  give  you  a  piece,  uncle  :  for  thus 
said  the  letter,  a  piece  of  ash-color,  a  three  piled  black, 
a  color  de  roy  ;5  a  crimson,  a  sad  green,  and  a  purple  : 
yes  i'faith. 

Uncle.  From  whom  should  you  receive  this  ? 

Flow.  From  whom  ?  Why,  from  my  father  !  — 
With  commendations  to  you,  uncle  ;  and  thus  he 
writes :  "  I  know,"  saith  he, "  thouhast  much  troubled 
thy  kind  uncle,  whom,  God  willing,  at  my  return,  I 
will  see  amply  satisfied."  —  Amply,  I  remember,  was 
the  very  word  ;  so  God  help  me  ! 

Uncle.  Have  you  the  letter  here  ? 

Flow.  Yes,  I  have  the  letter  here  ;  here  is  the  let- 
ter: no  —  yes,  no,  let  me  see  !  what  breeches  wore  I 
on  Saturday  :  let  me  see :  o'Tuesday,  my  calamanco  ; 
o'Wednesday,  my  peach  color  satin  ;  o'Thursday,  my 
velure  ;6  o'Friday,  my  calamanco  again ;  o'Saturday — 
let  me  see,  o'  Saturday  —  for  in  those  breeches  I  wore 
o'Saturday  is  the  letter :  O,  my  riding  breeches,  un- 
cle ;  those  that  you  thought  had  been  velvet — in  those 
very  breeches  is  the  letter. 

Uncle.  When  should  it  be  dated  ? 

Flow.  Marry,  decimo  tertio  Septembris  —  no,  no, 
decimo  tertio  Octobris  ;  ay,  Octobris  ;  so  it  is. 

Uncle.  Decimo  tertio  Octobris  :  and  here  I  receive 
a  letter  that  your  father  died  in  June  :  how  say  you, 
Kester  ?  [To  FLOW.,  senior,  as  CHRISTOPHER. 

Father.  Yes,  truly,  sir,  your  father  is  dead,  these 
hands  of  mine  holp  to  wind  him. 

Flow.  Dead? 

Father.  Ay,  sir,  dead. 

Flow.  'Sblood,  how  should  my  father  come  dead  ? 

Fath.  I'  faith,  sir,  according  to  the  old  proverb, 
The  child  was  born,  and  cried. 
Became  a  man,  fell  sick,  and  died. 

Uncle.  Nay,  cousin,  do  not  take't  so  heavily. 

Flow.  Nay,  I  can  not  weep  you  extempore  :  marry, 
some  two  or  three  days  hence,  I  shall  weep  without 
any  stuitance.  But  I  hope  he  died  in  good  memory. 

FatK.  Very  well,  sir,  and  set  down  everything  in 
good  order ;  and  the  Katharine  and  Hugh  you  talk  of, 
I  came  over  in  ;  and  I  saw  all  the  bills  of  lading  ;  and 
the  velvet  that  you  talk  of,  there  is  no  such  aboard. 

Flow.  By  God  !  I  assure  you,  then,  there  is  knavery 
abroad. 

Father.  I'll  be  sworn  of  that:  there's  knavery 
abroad,  although  there  were  never  a  piece  of  velvet 
in  Venice. 

Flow.  I  hope  he  died  in  good  estate. 

Father.  To  the  report  of  the  world  he  did,  and 
made  his  will,  of  which  I  am  the  unworthy  bearer. 

Flow.  His  will,  have  you  his  will  ? 

Father.  Yes,  sir.  and  in  the  presence  of  your  uncle, 
I  was  willed  to  deliver  it.  [Delivers  the  will. 

Uncle.  I  hope,  cousin,  now  God  hath  blessed  you 
with  wealth,  you  will  not  be  unmindful  of  me. 

4  Written  in  the  old  folio,  Katern  Hue. 

8  Royal-color — something  between  purple  and  crimson. 

6  Velure  is  velvet — French,  velours. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  I. 


49 


Flow.  I'll  do  reason,  uncle  ;  yet,  i'faith,  I  take  the 
denial  of  this  ten  pound  very  hardly. 

Uncle.  Nay,  I  denied  you  not. 

Flow.  By  God,  you  denied  me  directly. 

Uncle.  I'll  be  judged  by  this  good  fellow. 

Father.  Not  directly,  sir. 

Flow.  Why,  he  said  he  would  lend  me  none,  and 
that  had  wont  to  be  a  direct  denial,  if  the  old  phrase 
hold.  Well,  uncle,  come  ;  we'll  fall  to  the  legacies. 
[reads.]  In  the  name  of  God,  Amen. 

Item,  I  bequeath  to  my  brother,  Flowerdale,  three 
hundred  pounds,  to  pay  such  trivial  debts  as  I  owe  in 
London. 

Item,  To  my  son,  Matthew  Flowerdale,  I  bequeath 
two  bale  of  false  dice,  videlicit,  high  men  and  low 
men,  fulloms,  stop-cater-traies,1  and  other  bones  of 
function. 

Flow.  'Sblood,  what  doth  he  mean  by  this  ? 

Uncle.  Proceed,  cousin. 

Flow,  [read*] .  These  precepts  I  leave  him  ;  —  let 
him  borrow  of  his  oath  —  for  of  his  word  nobody  will 
trust  him.  Let  him  by  no  means  marry  an  honest 
woman  ;  —  for  the  other  will  keep  herself.  Let  him 
steal  as  much  as  he  can ;  that  a  guilty  conscience  may 
bring  him  to  his  destinate  repentance.  —  I  think  he 
means  hanging  !  An  this  were  his  last  will  and  tes- 
tament, the  devil  stood  laughing  at  his  bed's  feet 
while  he  made  it.  'Sblood,  what  doth  he  think  to  fob 
off  his  posterity  with  paradoxes. 

Fath.  This  he  made,  sir,  with  his  own  hands. 

Flow.  Ay,  well ;  nay  come,  good  uncle,  let  me  have 
this  ten  pound ;  imagine  you  have  lost  it ;  or  were 
robbed  of  it ;  or  misreckoned  yourself  so  much  :  any 
way,  to  make  it  come  easily  off,  good  uncle. 

Uncle.  Not  a  penny. 

Fath.  I'faith,  lend  it  him,  sir ;  —  I  myself  have  an 
estate  in  the  city  worth  twenty  pound  ;  all  that  I'll 
engage  for  him ;  —  he  saith  it  concerns  him  in  a  mar- 
riage. 

Flow.  Ay,  marry  doth  it ;  this  is  a  fellow  of  some 
sense,  this:  come,  good  uncle. 

Uncle.  Will  you  give  your  word  for  it,  Kester  ? 

Fath.  I  will,  sir,  willingly. 

Uncle.  Well,  cousin,  come  to  me  some  hour  hence, 
—  you  shall  have  it  ready. 

Flow.  Shall  I  not  fail  ? 

Uncle.  You  shall  not ;  come  or  send. 

Flow.  Nay,  I'll  come  myself. 

Fath.  By  my  troth,  would  I  were  your  worship's 
man. 

Flow.  What  ?  wouldst  thou  serve  ? 

Fath.  Very  willingly,  sir. 

Flow.  Well,  I'll  tell  thee  what  thou  shall  do  ;— thou 
say'st  thou  hast  twenty  pound ;  —  go  into  Burchin 
lane,  and  put  thyself  into  clothes  ;  —  thou  shalt  ride 
with  me  to  Croyden  fair. 

Fath.  I  thank  you,  sir  ;  I  will  attend  you. 

Flow.  Well,  uncle,  you  will  not  fail  me  an  hour 
hence. 

Uncle.  I  will  not,  cousin. 

Flow.  What's  thy  name  ?  Kester  ? 

Fath.  Ay,  sir. 

Flow.  Well,  provide  thyself:  uncle,  farewell  till 
anon.  [Exit  FLOWERDALE. 

Uncle.  Brother,  how  do  you  like  your  son  ? 

i  Quatre-trois. 


Fath.  I'failh,  brother,  as  a  mad,  unbridled  colt, 
Or  as  a  hawk,  that  never  stooped  to  lure  : 
The  one  must  be  tamed  with  an  iron  bit, 
The  other  must  be  watched,  or  still  she's  wild.8 
Such  is  my  son,  a  while  let  him  be  so ; 
For  counsel  still  is  folly's  deadly  foe. 
I'll  serve  his  youth,  for  youth  must  have  his  course, 
For  being  restrained,  it  makes  him  ten  times  worse : 
His  pride,  his  riot,  all  that  may  be  named, 
Time  may  recall,  and  all  his  madness  tamed. 

Enter  Sir  LAUNCELOT,  Master  WEATHERCOCK,  DAF- 
FODIL, ARTICHOKE,  LUCE,  and  FRANCES. 

Launce.  Sirrah,  Artichoke,  get  you  home  before  ; 
And,  as  you  proved  yourself  a  calf  in  buying, 
Drive  home  your  fellow  calves  that  you  have  bought. 

Art.  Yes,  forsooth ;  shall  not  my  fellow  Daffodil 
go  along  with  me  ? 

Launce.  No,  sir,  no  ;  I  must  have  one  to  wait  on  me. 

Art.  Daffodil,  farewell,  good  fellow  Daffodil. 
You  may  see,  mistress,  I'm  set  up  by  the  halves, 
Instead  of  waiting  on  you,  I'm  sent  to  drive  home 
calves. 

Launce.  'Faith,  Frank,  I  must  turn  away  this  Daffo- 
He's  grown  a  very  foolish,  saucy  fellow.  [dil ; 

Frances.  Indeed  !  la !  father,  he  was  so  since  I  had 

him: 
Before,  he  was  wise  enough  for  a  foolish3  serving-man. 

Weath.  But  what  say  you  to  me,  Sir  Launcelot  ? 

Launce.  Oh !  — 

About  my  daughters  ;  well,  I  will  go  forward ; 
Here's  two  of  them,  God  save  them  :  but  the  third, 
0,  she's  a  stranger  in  her  course  of  life  : 
She  hath  refused  you,  Master  Weathercock. 

Weath.  Ay,  by  the  rood,  Sir  Launcelot,  that  she 

hath  ; 

But  had  she  tried  me,  she'd  have  found  a  man 
Of  me,  indeed. 

Launce.  Nay,  be  not  angry,  sir,  at  her  denial, 
She  hath  refused  seven  of  the  worshipful'st 
And  worthiest  housekeepers  this  day  hi  Kent ; 
Indeed,  she  will  not  marry,  I  suppose. 

Weath.  The  more  fool  she  ! 

Launce.  What !  is  it  folly  to  love  charily  ?* 

Weath.  No,  mistake  me  not,  Sir  Launcelot ;  but 
'Tis  an  old  proverb,  and  you  know  it  well, 
That  women  dying  maids,  lead  apes  in  hell. 

Launce.  That  is  a  foolish  proverb  and  a  false. 

Weath.  B'the  mass,  I  think't  be,  and  therefore  let  it 

go :  [ces  ? 

But  who  shall  marry   [then]    with  Mistress  Fran- 

Frances.  By  my  troth,  they  are  talking  of  marrying 
me,  sister. 

Luce.  Peace,  let  them  talk : 
Fools  may  have  leave  to  prattle  as  they  walk. 

Daff.  Sententious5  still,  sweet  mistress, 
You  have  a  wit,  an  'twere  your  alabaster.6 

2  Or  as  a  hawk, — 

— must  be  watched  or  still  she's  wild.    See  the  Taming 
of  a  Shrew,  last  ed.,  vol.  iii,  p.  486.     Steevens. 

3  Queret  "fool's?" 

4  One  of  the  editions  before  me  reads  "  charity,"  another 
"chastity ;"  I  should  prefer  "  charily,"  that  is,  cautiously. 

6  One  of  the  copies  before  me  reads  "  sentesses,"  another 
"  sentences." — "  Sententious"  renders  the  line  at  once  more 
significant  and  musical. 

6  The  meaning  is  obscure.  '•  You  have  a  wit  if  it  were 
your  alabaster !"  that  is,  fair  as  alabaster,  and  as  brittle. 
Something  of  this  sort  was  probably  intended.  Hence  the 
rebuke  which  follows. 


50 


THE  LONDON  PRODIGAL. 


Luce.  Faith,  and  thy  tongue  trips  trench-more.1 

Launce.  No,  of  my  knighthood,  not  a  suitor  yet: 
Alas  !  God  help  her,  silly  girl,  a  fool,  a  very  fool : 
But  there's  the  other  black  brows,  a  shrewd  girl, 
Sh'ath  wit  at  will,  and  suitors  two  or  three  : 
Sir  Arthur  Greenshield  one,  a  gallant  knight, 
A  valiant  soldier,  but  his  power  but  poor. 
Then  there's  young  Oliver,  the  Devonshire  lad, 
A  wary  fellow,  marry,  full  of  wit, 
And  rich,  by  the  rood ;  but  there's  a  third,  all  air, 
Light  as  a  feather,  changing  as  the  wind ; 
Young  Flowerdale. 

Weath.  O,  he,  sir,  he  is 

A  desperate  Dick  indeed.    Bar  him  your  house. 

Launce.  Fie,  sir,  not  so  ;  he's  of  good  parentage. 

Weath.  By  my  say  and  so  he  is,  a  proper  man. 

Launce.  Ay,  proper  enough,  had  he  good  qualities. 

Weath.  Ay,  marry,  there's  the  point,  Sir  Launcelot : 
For  there's  an  old  saying  :  — 

Be  he  rich,  or  be  he  poor, 

Be  he  high,  or  be  he  low : 

Be  he  born  in  barn  or  hall, 

'Tis  manners  make  the  man  and  all. 

Launce.  You  are  in  the  right,  [good]  Master  Weath- 
ercock. 

Enter  Monsieur  CIVET. 

Civet.  Soul !  I  think  I  am  sure  crossed,  or  witched 
with  an  owl !  I  have  hunted  them,  inn  after  inn,  booth 
after  booth,  yet  can  not  find  them  ;  ha,  yonder  they 
are ;  that's  she  ;  I  hope  to  God  'tis  she  ;  nay,  I  know 
'tis  she  now,  for  she  treads  her  shoe  a  little  awry. 

Launce.  Where  is  this  inn  ?  we  are  past  it,  Daffo- 
dil.. 

Daff.  The  good  sign  is  here,  sir,  but  the  black  gate 
is  before. 

Civet.  Save  you,  sir.  I  pray,  may  I  borrow  a  piece 
of  a  word  with  you  ? 

Daff.  No  pieces,  sir. 

Civet.  Why,  then,  the  whole. 
I  pray,  sir,  what  may  yonder  gentlewomen  be? 

Daff.  They  may  be  ladies,  sir,  if  the  destinies  and 
mortality  work. 

Civet.  What's  her  name,  sir  ? 

Daff.  Mistress  Frances  Spurcock,  Sir  Launcelot 
Spurcock's  daughter. 

Civet.  Is  she  a  maid,  sir  ? 

Daff.  You  may  ask  Pluto,  and  Dame  Proserpine 
that ;  1  would  be  loath  to  be  riddled,  sir. 

Civ~et.  Is  she  married,  I  mean,  sir? 

Daff.  The  fates  know  not  yet  what  shoemaker  shall 
make  her  wedding-shoes. 

Civet.  I  pray  where  inn  you,  sir?  I  would  be  very 
glad  to  bestow  the  wine  of*  that  gentlewoman. 

Daff.  At  the  George,  sir. 

Civet.  God  save  you,  sir. 

Daff.  I  pray  your  name,  sir  ? 

Civet.  My  name  is  Master  Civet,  sir. 

Daff.  A  sweet  name ;  God  be  with  you,  good  Mas- 
ter Civet.  [Exit  CIVET. 

LattHce.  Ha  !  we  have  spied  you,  stout  St.  George  ? 

For  all 
Your  dragon,  y'had  best  sell  us  good  wine 

1  Trench-more  was  a  boisterous  sort  of  dance  to  a  lively 
tune,  in  triple  time, 
a  Quere:  Upon? 


That  needs  no  ivy-bush.    We'll  not  sit  by  it, 
As  you  do  on  your  horse.    This  room  shall  serve. 
Drawer.  .  .  . 

Enter  Drawer. 

Let  me  have  sack  for  us  old  men  ; 
For  these  [young]  girls  and  knaves,  small  wines  are 
A  pint  of  sack,  —  no  more  !  [best. 

Drawer.  A  quart  of  sack  in  the  Three  Tuns. 

[Exit. 

Launce.  A  pint !    Draw  but  a  pint.    Daffodil 
Call  [you]  for  wine  to  make  yourselves3  drink. 

Enter  young  FLOWERDALE. 

M.  Flow.  How  now !  Fie  !  sit  ye  in  the  open  room ! 
Now,  good  Sir  Launcelot,  and  my  kind  friend 
Worshipful  Master  Weathercock  ;  what  at  ?  — 
Your  pint !  — a  quart,  for  shame  ! 

Launce.  Nay,  roysterer,   by  your  leave,  we  will 
away. 

M.  Flow.  Come,  give  us  some  music  [first];  we  will 

go  dance  ; 
Be  gone,  Sir  Launcelot !  what !  and  fair  day  too. 

Luce*  'Twere  foully  done  to  dance  within  the  fair 

M.  Flow.  Nay,  if  you  say  so,  fairest  of  all  fairs 
Then  I'll  not  dance  !    A  pox  upon  my  tailor, 
He  hath  spoiled  me  a  peach-color  satin  suit, 
Cut  upon  cloth  of  silver  ;5  but,  if  ever 
The  rascal  serve  me  such  another  trick, 
I'll  give  him  leave,  i'faith,  to  put  me  in 
The  calendar  of  fools  ;  and  you,  Sir  Launcelot, 
You,  Master  Weathercock,  my  goldsmith  too, 
On  t'other  side  [of  you] .    I  bespoke  thee,  Luce, 
A  carcanet  of  gold,e  and  thought  thou  shouldst 
Have  had  it  for  the  fairing.    And  [yet]  the  rogue 
Puts  me  in  'rearages  for  orient  pearl ; — 
But  thou  shall  have't  by  Sunday  night,  wench.  — 

Enter  Drawer. 

Drawer.  Sir,  here  is  one  that  hath  sent  you  a  bottle 
of  Rhenish  wine,  brewed  with  rose  water.? 

Flow.  To  me  ? 

Drawer.  No,  sir,  to  the  knight ; 

And  desires  his  more  acquaintance. 

Launce.  To  me  ? 

What's  he  that  proves  so  kind  ? 

Daff.  I  have  a  trick 

To  know  his  name,  sir  j  he  hath  a  month's  mind,  here, 
To  Mistress  Frances ;  his  name's  Master  Civet. 

3  Quere  :  your  fellows  ? 

*  This  line  in  two  of  the  copies  before  me,  is  ascribed  to 
Sir  LaunccJot,  but  it  evidently  belongs  to  one  of  the  damsels, 
Luce  or  Frances.  I  think  it  due  to  the  former. 

6  "  Cut  upon  cloth  of  silver" — that  is,  with  cloth  of  silver 
placed  under  all  the  cuts,  openings,  or  slashes,  in  it.  "  Cloth 
of  gold  and  cuts,"  is  mentioned  in  "Much  Ado  about  Noth- 
ing," last  ed.,  vol.  ii,  p.  322. — Steevent. 

6  A  carcanet  was  an  ornament  for  the  neck  formerly 
worn. — Malone.  See  note  on  the  "  Comedy  of  Errors,"  last 
ed.,  vol.  ii,  p.  192. — Stecvtns. 

1  It  was  anciently  a  custom  at  taverns  to  send  flagons  of 
wine  from  one  room  to  another,  either  as  a  token  of  friend- 
ship or  by  way  of  proposal  to  form  an  acquaintance.  An 
amusing  anecdote  of  Ben  Jonson  and  the  witty  Bishop  Cor- 
bet, has  been  preserved  by  which  this  custom  may  happily 
be  illustrated.  Hearing  that  Corbet  was  in  the  next  room, 
Jonson  calls  for  a  quart  of  raw  wine  and  sends  it  by  the 
tapster,  saying :  "  Sirrah,  take  this  to  the  gentleman  in  the 
next  chamber,  with  my  love,  and  tell  him  I  sacrifice  my  ser- 
vice to  him." — "  FriendL"  says  Corbet,  "  tell  the  gentleman  I 
thank  him  for  his  love ;  but  tell  him  from  me,  that  he  is  mis- 
taken in  his  learning,  for  that  such  sacrifices  are  burnt  offer- 
ings always. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 


51 


Jounce.  Call  him  in,  Daffodil. 

Flow,  O,  I  know  him,  sir ; 

He  is  a  fool,  but  reasonable  rich ; 
His  father's  one  of  these  leasemongers,  these 
Cornmongers,  moneymongers,  but  he  never  had 
The  wit  to  be  a  whoremonger. 

Enter  Master  CIVET. 

Launce,  I  promise  you,  sir, 

You  are  at  too  much  charge.  [To  CIVET. 

Civet.  1  he  charge  is  small,  sir  !  I  thank  God, 
My  father  left  me  wherewithal.    If  t  please  you 
I've  a  great  mind  to  this  gentlewoman  here 
I'  the  way  of  marriage. 

Launce.  I  thank  you,  sir  ;  — 

Please  you  to  come  to  Lewsham,  my  poor  house  ; 
You  shall  be  kindly  welcome.    I  knew  your  father. 
He  was  a  wary  husband.     To  pay  here,  drawer? 

Drawer.  All's  paid,  sir  ;  this  gentleman  hath  paid 
all. 

Launce.  I'faith,  you  do  us  wrong ; 
But  we  shall  live  to  make  amends  ere  long. 
Master  Flowerdale,  —  is  that  your  man  ? 

M.  Flow.  Yes,  faith  ;  a  good  old  knave. 

Launce.  Nay,  then,  I  think, 

You  will  turn  wise,  now  you  take  such  a  servant. 
Come :  you'll  ride  with's  to  Lewsham  ?    Let's  away, 
'Tis  scarce  two  hours  to  the  end  of  day.        [Exeunt. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I. — A  Road  in  Kent,  near  the  house  of  Sir 
LAUNCELOT  SFURCOCK. 

Enter  Sir  ARTHUR  GREENSHIELD,  OLIVER,  Lieuten- 
ant, Soldiers,  and  Recruits. 

Arth.  Lieutenant,  lead  your  soldiers  to  the  ships, 
There  let  them  have  their  coats  ;  at  their  arrival 
They  shall  have  pay :  farewell ;  look  to  your  charge. 

Sol.  Ay ;  we  are  now  sent  away,  and  can  not  so 
much  as  speak  with  our  friends. 

OIL  No  man  what  e'er  you  used  a  zutch  a  fashion, 
thick  you  can  not  take  your  leave  of  your  vreens. 

Arth.  Fellow,  no  more  ;  lieutenant,  lead  them  off. 

Sol.  Well,  if  I  have  not  my  pay  and  my  clothes, 
I'll  venture  a  running  away,  though  I  hang  for't. 

Arth.  Away,  sirrah,  charm  your  tongue.1 

[Exeunt  Soldiers. 

OH.  Be  you  a  presser,  sir  ? 

Arth.  I  am  a  commander,  sir.  under  the  king. 

OH.  Sfoot,  man.  an  you  be  never  such  a  commander, 
I  shud  a-spoke  with  my  vreens  before  I  shud  a-gone  ; 
so  I  shud. 

Arth.  Content  yourself,  man  ;   my  authority 
Will  stretch  to  press  so  good  a  man  as  you. 

Oli.  Press  me  ?  I  defy  ye,  press  scoundrels,  and 
thy  messels'2 :  press  me,  chee  scorns  thee,  i'faith :  for, 
seest  thee,  here's  a  worshipful  knight  [who]  knows, 
cham  not  to  be  pressed  by  thee. 

1  So  in  King  Henry — "  Charm  thy  riotous  tongue" — in 
Othello,  "  Go  to ;  charm  your  tongue."  The  phrase  was  com- 
mon to  the  old  dramatists. 

2  Messel  is  a  leper,  but  the  sense  here  is,  messmates — as- 
sociates— parties  to  thy  mess. 


Enter  Sir  LAUNCELOT,  WEATHERCOCK,  young  FLOW  • 
ERDALE,  old  FLOWERDALE,  LUCE,  and  FRANCES. 

Launce.  Sir  Arthur,  welcome  to  Lewsham,  wel- 
come, by  my  troth.  What's  the  matter,  man,  [tc  Oli- 
ver} why  are  you  vexed  ? 

Oli.  Why,  man,  he  would  press  me. 

Launce.  O,  fie,  Sir  Arthur,  press  him  ? 
He  is  a  man  of  reckoning. 

Weath.  That  he  is,  Sir  Arthur,  hath  the  nobles, 
The  golden  ruddocks3  he. 

Arth.  The  fitter  for  the  wars  :  and1  were  he  not 
In  favor  with  your  worships,  he  should  see 
That  I  have  power  to  press  so  good  as  he. 

Oli.  Chill  stand  to  the  trial,  so  chill. 

Flow.  Ay,  marry  shall  he  ;  press  cloth  and  kar- 

sy,4 

White-pot  and  drowsen  broth  :4  tut,  tut,  he  can  not. 

Oli.  Well,  sir,  though  you  see  [he]  vlouten  cloth 
and  karsy,  chee  a  zeen  zutch  a  karsy  coat  wear  out 
the  town  sick  a  zilken  jacket,  as  thick  as  one  you 
wear. 

Flow.  Well-fed  vlittan  vlattan  5 

Oli.  Ay,  and  well-fed  cockney,  and  bot-bell  too  :6 
what  doest  think  cham  aveard  of  thy  zilken  coat?  no 
vear  vor  thee. 

Launce.  Nay,  come  ;  no  more  ;  be  all  lovers  and 
friends. 

Weath.  Ay,  'tis  best  so,  good  Master  Oliver. 

Flow.  Is  your  name  Master  Oliver,  I  pray  you  ? 

Oli.  What  tit  and  be  tit,  an  it  grieve  you. 

Flow.  No,  but  I'd  gladly  know  if  a  man  might  not 
have  a  foolish  plot  out  of  Master  Oliver  to  work  upon. 

Oli.  Work  thy  plots  upon  me  ;  stand  aside  ;  work 
thy  foolish  plots  upon  me  ;  chill  so  use  thee,  thou 
wert  never  so  used  since  thy  dam  bound  thy  head  j*— 
work  upon  me  ? 

Flow.  Let  him  come,  let  him  come. 

Oli.  Zirrah,  zirrah,  if  it  were  not  for  shame,  chee 
would  a  given  thee  zutch  a  whister-poop  under  the 
ear,  chee  would  have  made  thee  a  vanged  another  at 
my  feet.  Stand  aside,  let  me  loose  ;  cham  all  of  a 
vlaming  firebrand  ;  stand  aside. 

F low.  Well,  I  forbear  you  for  your  friends'  sake. 

Oli.  A  vig  for  all  my  vreens  ;  dost  thou  tell  me  of 
my  vreens  ? 

Launce.  No  more,  good  Master  Oliver  ;  no  more, 
Sir  Arthur.    And  maiden,  here,  in  the  sight 
Of  all  your  suitors,  every  man  of  worth, 
I'll  tell  you  whom  I  fainest  would  prefer 
To  the  hard  bargain  of  your  marriage-bed. 
Shall  I  be  plain  among  you,  gentlemen  ? 

Arth.  Ay,  sir,  'tis  best. 

Launce.  Then,  sir,  first  to  you, 

I  do  confess  you  a  most  gallant  knight, 
A  worthy  soldier,  and  an  honest  man  ; 
But  honesty  maintains  not  a  French-hood  ; 
Goes  very  seldom  in  a  chain  of  gold  ; 
Keeps  a  small  train  of  servants  ;  hath  few  friends. 
And,  for  this  wild  oats  here,  young  Flowerdale, 

3  The  golden  ruddoch  is  the  red-breast    A  cant  name  for 
gold  pieces. 

4  '•  Cloth  and  kersey,"  Devonshire  manufactures ;  white 
pot,  a  favorite  dish  in  Devonshire  ;  drowsen  broth,  a  common 
drink  tor  servants — herbs  boiled  up  hi  the  grounds  of  beer. 

6  Flowerdale  ridicules  the  man  of  Kent  for  his  pronunci- 
ation of  the  /  as  v. 
6  He  retorts  upon  the  Londoner. 


52 


THE  LONDON  PRODIGAL. 


I  will  not  judge  ;  God  can  work  miracles, 
But  he  were  better  make  a  hundred  new, 
Than  thee  a  thrifty  and  an  honest  one. 

Weath.  Believe  me,  he  hath  hit  you  there  ;  he  hath 
touched  you  to  the  quick,  that  he  hath. 

Flow                                Woodcock  o'  my  side  j 
Why,  Master  Weathercock, 
You  know  I  am  honest,  howsoever  trifles 

Weath.  Now,  by  my  troth,  I  know  no  otherwise. — 
Oh  !  your  old  mother  was  a  danie  indeed  : 
Heaven  hath  her  soul,  and  my  wife's  too,  I  trust : 
And  your  good  father,  honest  gentleman, 
He's  gone  a  journey  as  I  hear,  far  hence. 

Flow.  Ay,  God  be  praised,  he  is  far  enough  ; 
He's  gone  a  pilgrimage  lo  Paradise, 
And  left  me  to  cut  capers  against  care ; 
Luce,  look  on  me,  that  am  as  light  as  air. 

Luce.  I'faith.  I  like  not  shadows,  bubbles,  breath, 
I  hate  a  "  light  o'  love,"  as  I  hate  death. 

Launce.  Girl,  hold  thee  there :  look  on  this  De'n- 

shire  lad : 
Fat,  fair,  and  lovely,  both  in  purse  and  person. 

OIL  Well,  sir,  cham  as  the  Lord  hath  made  me, 
you  know  me  well  ivin,  cha  have  threescore  pack  of 
karsay  at  Blackem  Hall,1  and  chief  credit  beside,  and 
my  fortunes  may  be  so  good  as  another's,  zo  it  may. 

Luce.  'Tis  you  I  love,  whatever  others  say. 

Artk.  Thanks,  fairest. 

Flow'.  What,  wouldst  thou  have  me  quarrel  with 
him  ? 

Folk.  Do  but  say  he  shall  hear  from  you. 

Launce.  Yet,  gentlemen,  hows'ever  I  prefer 
This  De'nshire  suitor,  I'll  enforce  no  love  ; 
My  daughter  shall  have  liberty  to  choose 
Whom  she  likes  best :  in  your  lovesuits  proceed  ; 
Not  all  of  you,  but  only  one.  must  speed. 

IVeath.  You  have  said  well:  indeed,  right  well. 

Enter  ARTICHOKE. 

Arti.  Mistress,  here's  one  would  speak  with  you ; 
my  fellow  Daffodil  haih  him  in  the  cellar  already ; 
he  knows  him  ;  he  met  him  at  Croydon  fair. 

Launce.  Oh,  I  remember  ;  a  little  man. 

Arti.  Ay,  a  very  little  man. 

Launce.  And  yet  a  proper  man. 

Arti.  A  very  proper,  very  little  man. 

Lnunce.  His  name  is  Monsieur  Civet. 

Arti.  The  same,  sir. 

Launce.  Come,  gentlemen,  if  other  suitors  come, 
My  foolish  daughter  will  be  fitted  too  : 
But  my  saint  Delia,  no  man  dare  to  move. 

[Exeunt  all  but  younq  FLOWERDALE  and 
OLIVER,  and  old  FLOWERDALE. 

Flow.  Hark  you,  sir,  a  word. 

OIL  What  han  you  say  to  me  now  ? 

Flow.  Ye  shall  hear  from  me,  and  that  very  shortly. 

OIL  Is  that  all  ?  vare  thee  well :  chee  vere  thee 
not  a  vig.  [Exit  OLIVER. 

Flow.  What  if  he  should  come  now  ?*     I  am  fairly 
dressed. 

Faih.  I  do  not  mean  that  you  shall  meet  with  him, 
But  presently  we'll  go  and  draw  a  will : 
Where  we  will  set  down  land  we  never  saw, 
And  we  will  have  it  of  so  large  a  sum, 
*<ir  Launcelot  shall  entreat  you  take  his  daughter: 

1  Blnckwell  Hall,  the  great  repository  of  woollen  goods  in 
London. 

2  Previous  editions  read,  "  conie  more  V 


This  being  framed,  give  it  to  Master  Weathercock. 
And  make  Sir  Launcelot's  daughter  heir  of  all : 
And  make  him  swear  never  to  show  the  will 
To  any  one,  until  that  you  be  dead. 
This  done,  the  foolish  changeling  WeathercocK, 
Will  straight  discourse  unto  Sir  Launcelot, 
The  form  and  tenor  of  your  testament. 
Ne'er  stand  to  pause  of  it,  be  ruled  by  me  : 
What  will  ensue,  that  you  shall  quickly  see. 
Flow.  Come,  let's  about  it ;  if  that  a  will,  sweet 

Kit, 
Can  get  the  wench,  I  shall  renown  thy  wit. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II. — A  Room  in  Sir  LAUNCELOT'S  House. 
Enter  DAFFODIL  and  LUCE. 

Daff.  Mistress  !  still  froward  ?  No  kind  looks  unto 
Your  Daffodil,  now,  by  the  gods 

Luce.  Away,  you  foolish  knave,  let  go  my  hand. — 

Daff.  There  is  your  hand,  but  this  shall  go  with 

My  heart  is  thine,  this  is  my  true  love's  fee.       [me  : 

[  Takes  off  her  bracelet. 

Lute.  I'll  have  your  coat  stripped  o'er  your  ears 
You  saucy  rascal.  [for  this, 

Enter  Sir  LAUNCELOT' and  WEATHERCOCK. 

Launce.  How  now,  maid,  what  is  the  news  with 

you  ? 

Luce.  Your  man  is  something  saucy.    [Exit  LUCE. 
iMunce.  Go  to,  sirrah  ;  I'll  talk  with  you,  anon. 
Daff.  Sir,  I'm  a  man  to  be  talked  with  withal ; 
I  am  no  horse,  I  trow  : 
I  know  my  strength  then,  no  more  than  so. 

Weath.  Ay,  by  the  mannikins,3  good  Sir  Launcelot, 
I  saw  him  t'other  day  hoid  up  the  bucklers, 
Like   an  Hercules ;   faith,   God-a-mercy,  lad,  I  like 

thee  well. 
Launce.  I  like  him  well ;  go,  sirrah,  fetch  me  a  cup 

of  wine. 

That,  ere  I  part  with  Master  Weathercock, 
We  may  drink  down  our  farewell  in  French  wine. 

[Exit  DAFFODIL. 
Weath.  I  thank   you,  sir,  I   thank  you,  friendly 

knight : 

I'll  come  and  visit  you  ;  by  the  mouse-foot  I  will  ;•* 
Meantime,  take  heed  of  cutting  Flowerdale  ; 
He  is  a  desperate  Dick,  I  warrant  you. 

Re-enter  DAFFODIL,  with  wine. 

Launce.  He  is,  he  is  !  Fill,  Daffodil,  some  wine, 
Ha  !  what  wears  he  on  his  arm  ?     Fill  me  !  — 
My  daughter  Luce's  bracelet  ?  'tis  the  same : 
Ha'  to  you,  Master  Weathercock. 

Weath.  I  thank  you,  sir:  here,  Daffodil,  an  honest 
fellow  and  a  tall  thou  art :  Well :  I'll  take  my  leave, 
good  knight,  and  I  hope  to  have  you  and  all  your 
daughters  at  my  poor  honse  ;  in  good  sooth  I  must. 

Launce.  Thanks,  Master  Weathercock, 
I  shall  be  bold  to  trouble  you,  be  sure. 

Weath.  And  welcome,  heartily;  —  farewell. 

[Exit  WEATH. 

3  In  previous  copies  "  matkins"  or  "  makins." 

*  A  petty  oath  that  -seems  to  have  been  in  frequent  u^e. 

Thus,  in  Colinan  and  Perseda  (1549).    "  By  cock  and  pie. 

and  mouse-foot." — Steevens. 


ACT  II.  — SCENE  IV. 


53 


Launce.  Sirrah,  I  saw  my  daughter's  wrong,5  and 

[see]  withal, 

Her  bracelet  on  your  arm.    Off  with  it  [sirrah], 
And  with  it  my  living  too.    Have  I  a  care 
To  see  my  daughter  matched  with  men  of  worship, 
And  are  you  grown  so  bold  ?    Go  from  my  house 
Or  I  will  whip  you  hence. 

Daff.  I'll  not  be  whipped,  sir  :  there's  your  living  ! 
This  is  a  servingman's  reward.    What  care  I  ? 
I've  means  to  trust  to ;  I  scorn  service  ;  ay  ! 

[Exit  DAFFODIL. 

Launce.  A  lusty  knave,  but  I  must  let  him  go. 
Our  servants  must  be  taught  what  they  should  know. 

SCENE  III.— Another  Room  in  the  same. 
Enter  Sir  ARTHUR  and  LUCE. 

Luce.  Sir,  as  I  am  a  maid,  I  do  affect 
You  above  any  suitor  that  I  have, 
Although  that  soldiers  scarce  know  how  to  love. 

Artli.  I  am  a  soldier,  and  a  gentleman, 
Know  what  belongs  to  war,  what  to  a  lady : 
What  man  offends  me,  that  my  sword  shall  right : 
What  woman  loves  me,  I'm  her  faithful  knight. 

Luce.  I  neither  doubt  your  valor  nor  your  love, 
But  there  be  some  that  bear  a  soldier's  form, 
That  swear  by  him  they  never  think  upon, 
Go  swaggering  up  and  down  from  house  to  house, 
Crying,  "  God  pays  all  ;" and  

Ar/h.  Faith,  lady,  I'll  describe  you  such  a  man  ; 
Of  them  there  be  many  which  you've  spoke  of, 
That  bear  the  name  and  shape  [alone]  of  soldiers, 
Yet,  <>od  knows,  very  seldom  saw  the  war: 
That  haunt  your  taverns  and  your  ordinaries, 
Your  alehouses  sometimes,  for  all  alike 
To  uphold  the  brutish  humor  of  their  minds, 
Being  marked  down,  for  the  bondmen  of  despair  : 
Their  mirth  begins  in  wine,  but  ends  in  blood, 
Their  drink  is  clear,  but  their  conceits  are  mud. 

Luce.  Yet  these  [they  tell  us]  are  great  gentlemen  ; 

Arth.  No  soldiers;  —  they  are    wretched  slaves, 

[my  Luce], 

Whose   desperate  lives  doth    bring  them  timeless 
graves. 

Luce.  Both  for  yourself,  and  for  your  form  of  life, 
If  I  may  choose,  I'll  be  a  soldier's  wife.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. 
Enter  Sir  LAUNCELOT  and  OLIVER. 

0/t.  And  tyt  trust  to  it,  so  then. 

Launce.  Assure  yourself, 

You  shall  be  married  with  all  speed  we  may  : 
One  day  shall  serve  for  Frances  and  for  Luce. 

OH.  Why  che  would  vain  know  the  time,  for  pro- 
viding wedding  raiments. 

Launce.  Why  no  more  but  this  ;  first  get  your  as- 
surance made, 

Tom.hing  my  daughter's  jointure  ;  that  despatched, 
We  will,  in  two  days,  make  provision. 

0/t.  Why,  man.  chilhave  the  writings  made  by  to- 
morrow. 

Launce.  To-morrow  be  it  then  ;  let's  meet  at  the 
King's  Head  in  Fish  street. 

Oli.  No,  fie  man,  no  ;  let's  meet  at  the  Rose  at 

1  "  Wrath."  perhaps. 


Temple  Bar ;  that  will  be  nearer  your  counsellor  and 
mine. 

Launce.  At  the  Rose  be  it  then,  the  hour  be  nine, 
He  that  comes  last  forfeits  a  pint  of  wine. 

Oli.  A  pint  is  no  payment, 
Let  it  be  a  whole  quart,  or  nothing. 

Enter  ARTICHOKE. 

Arti.  Master,  here  is  a  man  would  speak  with 
Master  Oliver  ;  he  comes  from  young  Master  Flower- 
dale. 

Oli.  Why  chil  speak  with  him,  chil  speak  with  him. 

iMunce.  Nay,  [good]  son  Oliver,  I'll  surely  see 
What  ['tis]  young  Flowerdale  hath  sent  to  you. 
Pray  God  it  be  no  quarrel. 

Oli.  Why,  man,  if  he  quarrel  with  me,  chil  give  him 
his  hands  full. 

Enter  FLOWERDALE,  senior. 

Path.  God  save  you,  good  Sir  Launcelot. 

Launce.  Welcome,  honest  friend. 

Path.  To  you  and  yours  my  master  wishcth  health, 
But  unto  you,  sir,  this,  and  this,  he  sends : 
There  is  the  length,  sir,  of  his  rapier ; 
And  in  that  paper  shall  you'  know  his  mind. 

Oli.  Here,  chil  meet  him,  my  friend,  chil  meet  him. 

Launce.  Meet  him  ?  you  shall  not  meet    the    ruf- 
fian, fie  ! 

OK.  An  I  do  not  meet  him,  chil  give  you  leave  to 

call 
Me  Cut.    Where  is't,  sirrah  ?  where  is't  ?  where  is't? 

Path.  The  letter  showeth  both  the  time  and  place, 
And,  if  you  be  a  man,  then  keep  your  word. 

Launce.  Sir,  he  shall  not  keep  his  word,  he  shall 
not  meet. 

Path.  Why  let  him  choose  ;  he'll  be  the  better 
For  a  base  rascal,  and  reputed  so.  [known 

Oli.  Zirrah,  zirrah :  and  'twere  not  an  old  fellow, 
and  sent  after  an  errand,  chid  give  thee  something, 
but  chud  be  no  money  :  But  hold  thee,  for  I  see  thou 
art  somewhat  testern  ;  hold  thee  ;  there's  vorty  shil- 
lings ;  bring  thy  master  a  veeld,  chil  give  thee  vorty 
more  ;  look  thou  bring  him,  chil  maul  him,  tell  him  ; 
chil  mar  his  dancing  tressels ;  chil  use  him,  he  was 
ne'er  so  used  since  his  dam  bound  his  head  ;  chil  mar 
him  for  capering  any  more,  chy  vore  thee. 

Path.  You  seem  a  man,  sir,  stout  and  resolute, 
And  I  will  so  report,  whale'er  befall. 

Launce.  An  it  fall  out  ill,  assure  thy  master  this, 
I'll  make  him  fly  the  land,  or  use  him  worse. 

Path.  My  master,  sir,  deserves  not  this  of  you, 
And  that  you'll  shortly  find. 

Launce.  Thy  master  is  an  unthrift,  you  a  knave, 
And  I'll  attach  you  first,  next  clap  him  up  ; 
Or  have  him  bound  unto  his  good  behavior. 

Oli.  I  wood  you  were  a  sprite  if  you  do  him  any 
harm  for  this:  an  you  do  !  chil  ne'er  see  you,  nor  any 
of  yours,  while  chil  have  eyes  open  :  what,  do  you 
think,  chil  be  abasselled  up  and  down  the  town  for  a 
messel,1  and  a  scoundrel  ?  no  chy  vore  you  :  zirrah, 
chil  come  ;  zay  no  more  ;  chil  come  ;  tell  him  I  defy 
him. 

Path.  Well,  sir.  [Exit. 

Launce.  Now.  gentle  son,  let  me  know  the  place. 

OK.  No,  chy  vore  you. 

1  Messel,  a  leper.  He  probalily  means  to  say  that  ha 
would  be  evaded,  as  if  leprous,  for  his  cowardice; 


54 


THE  LONDON  PRODIGAL. 


Launce.  Let  me  [but]  see  the  note. 

Oil.  Nay,  c-hil  watch  you  for  zutch  a  trick. 
But  if  chee  meet  him,  zo  ;  if  not,  zo  ;  chil  make  him 
know  me,  or  chil  know  why  I  shall  not  j  chil  vare  the 
worse. 

Launce.  What  !  will  you  then  neglect  my  daugh- 
ter's love  ? 
Vrnture  your  slate  and  hers,  for  a  loose  brawl? 

OIL  Why,  man,  chil  not  kill  him,  marry  chil  veze1 
him  too.  and  again  ;  and  zo,  God  be  with  you,  vather- 
What,  man,  we  shall  meet  to-morrow.  [Exit. 

Launce.  Who  would  have  thought  he  had  been  so 

desperate  ? 
Come  forth,  niy  honest  servant,  Artichoke. 

Enter  ARTICHOKE. 

Arti.  Now,  what's  the  matter  ?  some  brawl  toward, 
I  warrant  you. 

Launce.  Go  get  me  thy  sword  bright  scoured,  thy 

bucUer  mended ; 

Oh  !  for  that  kn^ive,  that  villain  Daffodil : 
He  would  have  done  good  service.    But  to  thee. 

Arti.  Ay,  tliis  is  the  tricks  of  all  you  gentlemen, 
when  you  stand  in  need  of  a  good  fellow.  O  for  that 
Daffodil,  O,  where  is  he  ?  but  if  you  be  angry,  and  it 
be  but  for  the  wagging  of  a  straw,  then  out  o'  doors 
with  the  knave  ;  turn  the  coat  over  his  ears.  This  is 
the  humor  of  you  all. 

Launce.  Oh  !  for  that  knave,  that  lusty  Daffodil. 

Arti.  Why  there  'tis,  now :  our  year's  wages  and 
our  vails  will  scarce  pay  for  broken  swords  and  buck- 
ler<  that  we  use  in  our  quarrels.  But  I'll  not  fight  if 
Daffodil  be  o'  't  other  side  ;  — that's  flat. 

Launce.  'Tis  no  such  matter,  man,  get  weapons 
And  be  at  London  ere  the  break  of  day:          [ready, 
Watch  near  the  lodging  of  the  De'nshire  youth, 
But  be  unseen  :  and  as  he  goeth  out, 
As  he  will  go,  and  early,  without  doubt  — 

Arti.  What,  would  you  have  me  draw  upon  him, 
As  he  goes  in  the  street  ? 

Launce.  Not  for  a  world,  man ; 

Into  the  fields.    For  to  the  field  he  goes, 
There  to  meet  the  desperate  Flowerdale : 
Take  thou  the  part  of  Oliver  my  son, 
For  he  shall  be  my  son,  and  marry  Luce : 
Do'st  understand  me,  knave  ? 

Arti.  Ay,  sir.  I  do  understand  you,  but  my  young 
mistress  might  be  better  provided  in  matching  with 
my  fellow  Daffodil. 

Launce.  No  more  ;  [thy  fellow]  Daffodil's  a  knave, 
A  most  notorious  knave.  [Exit  ARTICHOKE. 

Enter  WEATHERCOCK. 

Master  Weathercock,  you  come  in  happy  time  ; 
The  desperate  Flowerdale  hath  writ  a  challenge  : 
And  who  think  you  must  answer  it  but  [he], 
The  Devonshire  man,  my  son  Oliver? 

Weath.  Marry,  I'm  sorry  for  it,  good  Sir  Launcelot, 
But  if  you'll  be  ruled  by  me,  we'll  stay  their  fury. 

Launce.  As  how,  I  pray? 

Weath.  Marry,  I'll  tell  you,  by  promising  young 
Flowerdale  the  red-lipped  Luce. 

Launce.  I'll  rather  follow  her  unto  her  grave. 

>  Pheeze  or  feaze  him.  To  take  the  twist  asunder  So 
in  the  "  Taming  of  the  Shrew"— 

"  111  pheeze  you.  i'faith." 


Weath.  Ay,  Sir  Launcelot,  I  would  have  thought  so 
But  you  and  I  have  been  deceived  in  him.  [too. 

Come  read  this  will,  or  deed,  or  what  you  call  it, 
I  know  not :  come,  your  spectacles,  I  pray. 

Launce.  Nay,  I  thank  God,  I  see  [itj  very  well. 

Weath.  Marry,  God  bless  your  eyes,  mine  have 
Almost  this  thirty  years.  [been  dim 

Launce.  Ha,  what  is  this  ?  what  is  this  *     \Reads .] 

Weath.  Nay,  there  is  true  love  indeed ; 
He  gave  it  to  me  bnt  this  very  morn, 
And  bade  me  keep't  unseen  from  any  one, 
Good  youth,  to  see  how  men  may  be  deceived. 

Launce.  Passion  of  me  !     What  a  wretch  am  I 
To  hate  this  loving  youth  !  — 
He  hath  made  me,  together  with  my  Luce, 
He  loves  so  dear,  executors  of  all 
His  wealth. 

Weath.  All,  all,  good  man,  he  hath  given  you  all. 

Launce.  Three  ships,  now  in  the  straits,  and  home- 
ward bound, 

Two  lordships  of  two  hundred  pound  a  year  : 
The  one  in  Wales,  th'  other  in  Glostershire  : 
Debts  and  accounts  are  thirty  thousand  pound, 
Plate,  money,  jewels,  sixteen  thousand  more, 
Two  houses  furnished  well  in  Coleman  street : 
Besides  whate'er  his  uncle  leaves  to  him, 
Being  of  great  domains  and  wealth  at  Peckham. 

Weath.  How  like  you  this,  good  knight  ?  How  like 
you  this  ? 

Launce.  I  have  done  him  wrong  ;  but  now  I'll  make 

amends. 

The  De'nshire  man  shall  whistle  for  a  wife  ; 
He  marry  Luce  !  Luce  shall  be  Flowerdale's. 

Weath.  Why  that  is  friendly  said,  let  s  ride  to  Lon- 
And  straight  prevent  their  match,  by  promising  [don 
Your  daughter  to  that  lovely  ( loving-]  lad. 

Launce.  We'll  ride  to  London:  —  or,  it  shall  not 

need  ; 

We'll  cross  to  Deptford  strand,  and  take  a  boat. 
Where  be  these  knaves  ?  what,  Artichoke ;  what,  fop ! 

Enter  ARTICHOKE. 

Arti.  Here  be  the  very  knaves,  but  not  the  merry 
knaves. 

Launce.  Here,  take  my  cloak:  I'll  have  a  walk  to 
Deptford. 

Arti.  Sir,  we  have  been  scouring  of  our  swords  and 
bucklers  for  your  defence. 

Launce.  Defence  me  no  defence :  let  your  swords 
I'll  have  no  fighting.    Ay,  let  blows  alone  !       [rust ; 
Bid  Delia  see  all  things  in  readiness 
Against  the  wedding.    We'll  have  two  at  once  ; 
That  will  save  charges,  Master  Weathercock. 

Arti.  We'll  do  it,  sir.  [Exeunt. 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  I. -4- A  walk  before  the  House  of  Si 

Enter  CIVET,  FRANCES,  and  DELIA. 

Civ.  By  my  troth  this  is  good  luck  ;  I  thank  God 
for  this.  In  good  sooth  I  have  even  my  heart'*  de- 
sire :  sister  Delia,  —  now  I  may  boldly  call  you  so, 
for  your  father  hath  frank  and  freely  given  me  his 
daughter  Frank. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II. 


55 


Frances.  Ay,  by  my  troth,  Tom ;  thou  hast  my 
good  will  too,  for,  I  thank  God,  I  longed  for  a  hus- 
band, and  would  I  might  never  stir,  for  one  whose 
name  was  Tom. 

Del.  Why,  sister,  now  you  have  your  wish. 

Civ.  You  say  very  true,  sister  Delia,  and  I  pr'ythee 
call  me  nothing  but  fom  :  and  I'll  call  thee  sweet- 
heart, and  Frank:  will  it  not  do  well,  sister  Delia? 

Del.  It  will  do  very  well  with  both  of  you. 

Frances.  But  Tom,  must  I  go  as  I  do  now  when  I 
am  married  ? 

Civ .  No,  Frank,  I'll  have  thee  go  like  a  citizen 
In  a  guarded  gown,  and  a  French  hood.1 

Frances.  By  my  troth,  that  will  be  excellent  indeed. 

Del.  Brother,  maintain  your  wife  to  your  estate, 
Apparel  you  yourself  like  to  your  father: 
And  let  her  go  like  to  your  ancient  mother. 
He,  sparing,  got  his  wealth,  left  it  to  you. 
Brother,  take  heed,  for  pride  bids  thrift  adieu. 

Civ.  So  as  my  father  and  my  mother  went ! — 
That's  a  jest  indeed ;  why,  she  went  in 
A  fringed  gown,  a  single  ruff,  and  white  cap. 
And  my  father  in  a  mocado2  coat, 
A  pair  of  red  satin  sleeves,  and  a  canvass  back. 

Del.  And  yet  his  wealth  was  full  as  much  as  yours. 

Civ.  My  estate,  my  estate,  I  thank  God,  is  forty 
pound  a  year,  in  good  leases  and  tenements  ;  besides 
twenty  mark  a  year  at  Cuckolds'-Haven ;  and  that 
conies  to  us  all  by  inheritance. 

Del.  That  may  indeed,  'tis  very  fitly  'plied. 
I  know  not  how  it  comes,  but  so't  falls  out 
That  those  whose  fathers  have  died  wondrous  rich, 
And  took  no  pleasure  but  to  gather  wealth, 
Thinking  of  little  [but]  that  they  leave  behind 
For  them,  they  hope,  will  be  of  their  like  mind. — 
But  it  (alls  out  contrary;  forty  years  sparing, 
Is  scarce  three  seven  years  spending  ;  never  caring 
What  will  ensue.    When  all  their  coin  is  gone, 
And  all  too  late,  then  thrift  is  thought  upon : 
Ot't  have  I  heard,  that  pride  and  riot  kist, 
And  then  repentance  cries  —  For  had  I  wist. 

Civ.  You  say  well,  sister  Delia,  you  say  well :  but 
I  mean  to  live  within  my  bounds :  for,  look  you,  I 
have  set  down  my  rest  thus  far,  but  to  maintain  my 
wife  in  her  French  hood,  and  her  coach,  keep  a  cou- 
ple of  geldings,  and  a  brace  of  greyhounds ;  and  this 
is  all  I'll  do. 

Del.  And  you'll  do  this  with  forty  pound  a  year? 

Civ.  Ay,  and  a  better  penny,  sister. 

Frances.  Sister,  you  forget  that  at  [the]  Cuckold's- 
Haven. 

Civ.  By  my  troth  well  remembered,  Frank, 
I'll  give  thee  that  to  buy  thee  pins. 

Del.  Keep  you  the  rest  for  points.  Alas  the  day  ! 
Fools  shall  have  wealth,  though  all  the  world  say  nay : 
Come,  brother,  will  you  in?  dinner  stays  for  us. 

Civ.  Ay,  good  sister,  with  all  my  heart. 

Frances.  Ay,  by  my  troth,  Tom,  for  I  have  a  good 
stomach. 

Civ.  And  I  the  like,  sweet  Frank  ;  no,  sister,  do  not 
I'll  go  beyond  my  bounds.  [think 

Del.  God  grant  you  may  not.     [Exeunt. 

1  Guards  or  facings.     So  in  Henry  IV.  we  have  "  velvet 
guards  and  Sunday  citizens." 

2  A  woollen  stuff  in  imitation  of  velvet    Mock  velvet.    It 
is  frequently  mentioned  in  the  old  plays.    So  in  the  "  Dev- 
il's Charter,""  1607 — "  Varlet  of  velvet,  old  heart  of  durance, 
muccado  villain !" 


SCENE  II.— London.     The  Street  before  young  FLOW. 
ERDALE'S  House. 

Enter  young  FLOWERDALE  and  his  Father,  u-ith  foils 
in  their  hands. 

Flow.  Sirrah,  Kit,  tarry  thou  there  ;  I  have  spied 
Sir  Launcelot  and  old  Weathercock  coming  this  way  ; 
they  are  hard  at  hand ;  I  will  by  no  means  be  spoken 
withal. 

Path.  I'll  warrant  you  ;  go,  get  you  in. 

Enter  Sir  LAUNCELOT  and  WEATHERCOCK. 

Launce.  Now,  my  honest  friend,  thou  dost  belong 
to  Master  Flowerdale  ? 

F ath.  I  do,  sir. 

Launce.  Is  he  within,  my  good  fellow  ? 

Fath.  No,  sir,  he  is  not  within. 

Launce.  I  pr'ythee  if  he  be  within,  let  me  speak 
with  him. 

Fath.  Sir,  to  tell  you  true,  my  master  is  within,  but 
indeed  would  not  be  spoke  withal:  there  be  some 
terms  that  stand  upon  his  reputation,  therefore  he 
will  not  admit  any  conference  till  he  hath  shook  them 
off. 

Launce.  I  pr'ythee  tell  him  his  very  good  friend 
Sir  Launcelot  Spurcock  entreats  to  speak  with  him. 

Fath.  By  my  troth,  sir,  if  you  come  to  take  up  the 
matter  between  my  master  and  the  Devonshire  man, 
you  do  but  beguile  your  hopes,  and  lose  your  labor. 

Launce.  Honest  friend,  I  have  not  any  such  thing  to 
him  ;  I  come  to  speak  with  him  about  other  matters. 

Fath.  For  my  master,  sir,  hath  set  down  his  reso- 
lution, either  to  redeem  his  honor,  or  leave  his  life 
behind  him. 

Launce.  My  friend,  I  do  not  know  any  quarrel 
touching  thy  master  or  any  other  person ;  my  busi- 
ness is  of  a  different  nature  to  him,  and  I  pr'ythee  so 
tell  him. 

Fath.  For  howsoever  the  Devonshire  man  is, 
My  master's  mind  is  bloody :  that's  a  round  O,3 
And  therefore,  sir,  entreaties  are  but  vain. 

Launce.  I  have  no  such  thing  to  him,  I  tell  thee 
once  again. 

Fath.  I  will  then  so  signify  to  him.     [Exit  Father. 

Launce.  A  sirrah  !  I  see  this  matter's  hotly  carried. 
But  I  will  labor  to  dissuade  him  from  it. 

Enter  MATTHEW  FLOWERDALE  and  his  Father. 

Good  morrow,  Master  Flowerdale. 

Flow.  Good  morrow,  good  Sir  Launcelot ;  Master 
Weathercock,  good  morrow  ;  by  my  troth,  gentlemen, 
I  have  been  reading  over  Nick  Machiavel ; 
I  find  him  good  to  be  known,  not  to  be  followed  : 
A  pestilent  humane  fellow  !  I  have  made 
Certain  annotations  on  him — such  as  they  be  ! 
And  how  is't,  Sir  Launcelot  ?  ha  ?  how  is't? 
A  mad  world,  men  can  not  live  quiet  in  it. 

Launce.  Master  Flowerdale,  I  do  understand  there 
is  some  jar  between  the  Devonshire  man  and  you. 

Fath.  They,  sir  ?  they  are  good  friends  as  can  be. 

Flow.  Who  ?  Master  Oliver  and  I  ?  as  good  friends 
as  can  be. 

Launce.  It  is  a  kind  of  safety  in  you  to  deny  it,  and 
a  generous  silence,  which  too  few  are  endued  withal : 
but,  sir,  such  a  thing  I  hear,  and  I  could  wish  it  oth- 
erwise. 

3  A  round  truth. 


56 


THE  LONDON  PRODIGAL. 


Flow.  No  such  thing,  Sir  Launcelot ;  o'  my  reputa- 
tion, as  I  am  an  honest  man. 

Launce.  Now,  then,  I  do  believe  you,  if  you  do 
Engage  your  reputation  there  is  none. 

Flow.  Nay,  I  do  not  engage  my  reputation  there  is 

not. 

You  shall  not  bind  me  to  any  condition  of  hardness  j 
But  if  there  be  anything  between  us,  then  there  is ; 
If  there  be  not,  then  there  is  not :  be,  or  be  not,  all's 
one. 

Launce.  I  do  perceive  by  this,  that  there  is  some- 
thing between  you,  and  I  am  very  sorry  for  it. 

Flow.  You  may  be  deceived,  Sir  Launcelot ;  — 

the  Italian 

Hath  a  pretty  saying,  Questo  —  I  have  forgot  it  too, 
'Tis  out  of  my  head  [now],  but,  in  my  translation, 
Ift  hold,  thus  :  Thou  hast  a  friend,  keep  him ;  if  a 
foe,  trip  him. 

Launce.  Come,  I  do  see  by  this  there  is  somewhat 

between  you, 
And.  before  God,  I  could  wish  it  otherwise. 

Flow.  Well,  what  is  between  us  can  hardly  be  al- 
Sir  Launcelot,  I  am  to  ride  forth  to-morrow,   [tered : 
That  way  which  I  must  ride,  no  man  must  deny  me 
The  sun  ;  I  would  not  by  any  particular  man, 
Be  denied  common  and  general  passage.    If  any  one 
Saith,  Flowerdale,  thou  passest  not  this  way: 
My  answer  is,  I  must  either  on  or  return  ; 
But  return  is  not  my  word ;  I  must  on : 
If  I  can  not  then  make  my  way,  nature 
Hath  done  the  last  for  me,  and  there's  the  fine. 

Launce.  Master  Flowerdale,  every  man  hath  one 
And  two  ears.  Nature  in  her  building,  [tongue, 
Is  a  most  curious  workmaster. 

Flow.  That  is  as  much  as  to  say,  a  man  should  hear 
More  than  he  should  speak. 

Launce.  You  say  true,  and  indeed  I  have  heard  more, 
Than  at  this  time  I  will  speak. 

Flow.  You  say  well. 

Launce.  Slanders  are  more  common  than  truths, 
Flowerdale  ;  but  proof  is  the  rule  for  both.  [Master 

Flow.  You  say  true.    What-do-you-call-him, 
Hath't  there  in  his  third  canton  I1 

Launce.  I  have  heard  you  have  been  wild :  I  have 
believed  it. 

Flow.  'Twas  fit,  'twas  necessary. 

Jounce.  But  I  have  seen  somewhat  of  late  in  you, 
That  hath  confirmed  in  me  an  opinion  of 
Goodness  toward  you. 

Flow.  Faith,  sir,  I'm  sure  I  never  did  you  harm: 
Some  good  I've  done,  either  to  you  or  yours, 
I'm  sure  you  know  not,  neither  is't  my  will  you  should. 

Launce.  Ay,  your,  will,  sir. 

Flow.  Ay,  my  will,  sir :  'sfoot,  do  you  know  aught 
By  God,  an  you  do,  sir,  I  am  abused.  [of  my  will? 

Launce.  Go,  Mr.  Flowerdale,  what  I  know,  I  know: 
And  know  you  thus  much  out  of  my  knowledge, 
That  I  [do]  truly  love  you.    For  my  daughter, 
She's  yours.    And  if  you  like  a  marriage  better 
Than  a  brawl,  all  quirks  of  reputation  set 
Aside,  go  with  me  presently :  and  where 
You  should  fight  bloody  battle,  you'll  be  married 
To  a  [most]  lovely  lady. 

Flow.  Nay  but,  Sir  Launcelot  ? 

1  Canto  is  probably  the  word.  Steevens  suggests  that 
young  Flowerdale  means  to  refer  to  the  third  canto  of  the 
Faery  Queen,  in  which  Abessaslanders  the  Lady  Una. 


Launce.  If  you  will  not  embrace  my  offer,  yet 
Assure  yourself  thus  much,  I  will  have  order 
To  hinder  your  encounter. 

Flow.  Nay,  but  hear  roe,  Sir  Launcelot. 

Launce.  Nay,  stand  not  you  upon  putative  honor 
'Tis  merely  unsound,  unprofitable,  and  idle. 
Your  business  is  to  wed  my  daughter,  therefore 
Give  me  word,  I'll  go  and  provide  the  maid ; 
Your  present  resolution,  either  now 
Or  never. 

Flow.  Will  you  so  put  me  to  it  ? 

Launce.  Ay,  before  God,  you  either  take  me  now, 
Or  take  me  never.    Else  what  I  thought  should  be 
Our  match,  shall  be  our  parting,  so,  fare  you  well, 
For  ever. 

Flow.  Stay :  fall  out  what  may, 
My  love  is  above  all :  I  will  come. 

Launce.  I  [will]  expect  you,  and  so  fare  you  well. 
[Exit  Sir  LAUNCELOT  and  WEATHERCOCK. 

Path.  Now,  sir,  how  shall  we  do  for  wedding  ap- 
parel ? 

Flow.  By  the  mass,  that's  true  :  now  help,  Kit ; 
The  marriage  ended,  we'll  make  amends  for  all. 

Fath.  Well,  well,  no  more,  prepare  you  for  your 

bride, 
We  will  not  want  for  clothes,  whate'er  betide. 

Flow.  And  thou  shall  see,  when  once  I  have  my 

dower, 

In  mirth  we'll  spend  full  many  a  merry  hour ; 
As  for  this  wench,  I  not  regard  a  pin ; 
It  is  her  gold  must  bring  my  pleasures  in.          [Exit 

Fath.  Is't  possible  he  hath  his  second  living  ?* 
Forsaking  God,  himself  to  the  devil  giving  : 
But  that  I  knew  his  mother  firm  and  chaste, 
My  heart  would  say,  my  head  she  had  disgraced : 
But  that  her  fair  mind  so  foul  a  deed  did  shun,3 
Else  would  I  swear,  he  never  was  my  son. 

Enter  Uncle. 

Uncle.  How  now,  brother  !  how  do  you  find  your 
son? 

Fath.  0  brother,  heedless  as  a  libertine, 
Even  grown  a  master  in  the  school  of  vice  ; 
One  that  doth  nothing,  but  invent  deceit : 
For  all  the  day  he  humors  up  and  down, 
How  he  the  next  day  might  deceive  his  friend ; 
He  thinks  of  nothing  but  the  present  time  : 
For  one  groat  ready  down,  he'll  pay  a  shilling : 
But  then  the  lender  must  needs  stay  for  it. 
When  I  was  young,  I  had  the  scope  of  youth, 
Both  wild,  and  wanton,  careless,  desperate  : 
But  such  mad  strains,  as  he's  possessed  withal, 
I  thought  it  wonder  for  to  dream  upon. 

Uncle.  I  told  you  so,  but  you  would  not  believe  it. 

Fath.  Well,  I  have  found  it;  but  one  thing  comforts 
Brother,  to-morrow  he's  to  be  married  [me  ; 

To  beauteous  Luce,  Sir  Launcelot  Spurcock's  daugh- 
ter. 

Uncle.  Is't  possible  ? 

Fath.  'Tis  true,  and  thus  I  mean  to  curb  him  : 
Brother,  this  day,  I  will  you  shall  arrest  him  : 
If  anything  will  tame  him,  it  must  be  that, 
For  he  is  rank  in  mischief,  chained  to  a  life 
That  will  increase  his  shame,  and  kill  his  wife. 

2  That  is,  his  fellow,  his  equal  in  depravity. 

3  I  have  transposed  these  two  lines  as  they  occur  in  othe; 
editions. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  III. 


57 


Uncle.  What !  arrest  him  on  his  wedding-day  ?  That 
Were  an  unchristian,  an  inhuman  part : 
How  many  couple,  even  for  that  very  day, 
Have  purchased  seven  years'  sorrow  afterward  ? 
Forbear  him  then  to-day  ;  —  do  it  to-morrow  ; 
And  tftis  day  mingle  not  his  joy  with  sorrow. 

Path.  Brother,  I'll  have  it  done  this  very  day, 
And,  in  the  view  of  all,  as  he  comes  from  church. 
Do  but  observe  the  course  that  he  will  take  ; 
Upon  my  life  he  will  forswear  the  debt : 
And,  for  we'll  have  the  sum  shall  not  be  slight, 
Say  that  he  owes  you  near  three  thousand  pound  : 
Good  brother,  let  it  be  done  immediately. 

Uncle.  Well,  brother,  seeing  you  will  have  it  so, 
I'll  do  it,  and  straight  provide  the  sheriff. 

Path.  So,  brother,  by  this  means  shall  we  perceive 
What  ['tis]  Sir  Launcelot  in  this  pinch  will  do  ; 
And  how  his  wife  doth  stand  affected  to  him  ! 
Her  love  will  then  be  tried  to  the  uttermost ; 
And  all  the  rest  of  them.    What  I  will  do, 
Shall  harm  him  much,  and  much  avail  him  too.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III.— A  High  Road  near  London. 

Enter  OLIVER,  and  afterward,  Sir  ARTHUR  GREEN- 
SHIELD. 

OH.  Cham  assured  thick  be  the  place  that  the 
scoundrel  [zo. 

Appointed  to  meet  me  :  if  a  come,  zo ;  if  a  come  not, 
And  che  war  avise,  he  would  make  a  coystrel1  on  us, 
Ched  veze  him, and  che  vang  him  in  hand,  che  would 
Hoist  him,  and  give  it  him  too  and  again,  zo  chud. 
Who  been  a  there  !  Sir  Arthur  ?  chil  stay  aside. 

Arth.  I've  dogged  the  De'nshire  man  into  the  field, 
For  fear  of  any  harm  that  should  befall  him  : 
I  had  an  inkling  of  that  yesternight, 
That  Flowerdale  and  he  should  meet  this  morning : 
Though,  of  my  soul,  Oliver  fears  him  not, 
Yet,  for  I'd  see  fair  play  on  either  side, 
Made  me  to  come,  to  see  their  valors  tried. 
Good  morrow  to  you,  Master  Oliver. 

OH.  God  and  good  morrow. 

Arth.  What,  Master  Oliver,  are  you  angry  ? 

OK.  What  an  it  be,  ty t  an  grieven  you  ? 

Arth.  Not  me  at  all,  sir,  but  I  imagine  by 
Your  being  here  thus  armed,  you  stay  for  some 
That  you  should  fight  withal. 

Oli.  Why  an  he  do,  che  would  not  dezire  you  to 
take  his  part. 

Arth.  No,  by  my  troth,  I  think  you  need  it  not, 
For  he  you  look  for,  I  think  means  not  to  come. 

Oli.  No,  and  che  war  assure  of  that,  ched  veze  him 
in  another  place. 

Enter  DAFFODIL. 

Daff.  0,  Sir  Arthur,  Master  Oliver,  ah  me  ! 
Your  love,  and  yours,  and  mine,  sweet  Mistress  Luce, 
This  morn  is  married  to  young  Flowerdale. 

Arth.  Married  to  Flowerdale  !    Impossible. 

Oli.  Married,  man  ?  che  hope  thou  dost  but  jest, 
To  make  a  vlowten2  merriment  of  it. 

Daff.  O,  'tis  too  true  ;  here  comes  his  uncle. 

1  Coystrel,  from  the  French  coustillier,  properly  the  ser- 
vant of  a  man-at-arms ;  hence  it.became  degraded  in  its  sig- 
nification, and  was  applied  to  a  low,  mean  person. 

»  Flouting. 


Enter  FLOWERDALE,  Sheriff,  Officers. 


Uncle.  Good  morrow,  Sir  Arthur;  good  morrow 
Master  Oliver. 

Oli.  God  and  good  morn,  Mr.  Flowerdale.  I  pray 
you  tellen  us,  is  your  scoundrel  kinsman  married  ? 

Uncle.  [Ay] ,  Master  Oliver,  call  hint  what  you  will, 
But  he  is  married  to  Sir  Launcelot's  daughter. 

Arth.  Unto  her? 

Oli.  Ah  !  ha  the  old  fellow  zerved  me  thick  a  trick  ? 
Why,  man,  he  was  a  promise  chil  chud  a  had  her  ; 
Is  a  zitch  a  vox,  chil  look  to  his  water  che  vor  him, 

Uncle.  The  music  plays  ;  they  are  coming  from  the 

church. 
Sheriff,  do  your  office  :  fellows,  stand  stoutly  to  it ! 

Enter  Sir  LAUNCELOT  SPURCOCK,  M.  FLOWERDALE, 
WEATHERCOCK,  CIVET,  LUCE,  FRANCES,  FLOWER- 
DALE,  senior,  and  Attendants. 

Oli.  God  give  you  joy,  as  the  old  zaid  proverb  is, 
and  some  zorrow  among  !  You  met  us  well,  did  you 
not? 

Launce.  Nay,  be  not  angry,  sir,  the  fault's  in  me : 
I  have  done  all  the  wrong  —  kept  him  from  coming 
To  the  field  to  you,  as  I  might,  sir,  for  I'm  a  justice, 
And  sworn  to  keep  the  peace. 

JVeath.  Ay,  marry  is  he,  sir, 

A  very  justice,  and  sworn  to  keep  the  peace  : 
You  must  not  disturb  the  weddings.  . 

Launce.  Nay,  never  frown  nor  storm,  sir ;  if  you  do,     ' 
I'll  have  an  order  taken  for  you. 

Oli.  Well,  chil  be  quiet. 

Weath.  Master  Flowerdale,  Sir  Launcelot,  look  you, 
who's  here,  Master  Flowerdale  ? 

Launce.  Master  Flowerdale,  welcome  with  all  my 
heart. 

Flow.  Uncle,  this  is  she  —  faith!    Master  under- 

sheriff, 
Arrest  me  ?    At  whose  suit  ?    Draw,  Kit ! 

Uncle.  At  my  suit,  sir. 

Launce.  Why,  what's  the  matter,  Master  Flower- 
dale? 

Uncle.  This  is  the  matter,  sir :  this  unthrift  here 
Hath  cozened  you;  and  [he]  hath  had  of  me, 
In  several  sums,  three  thousand  pound. 

Flow.  Why,  uncle ! 

Uncle.  Cousin,  you  have  uncled  me, 

And  if  you  be  not  [now]  stayed,  you  will  prove 
A  cozener  unto  all  that  know  you. 

Launce.  Why,  sir,  suppose  he  be  to  you  in  debt 
Ten  thousand  pound,  his  state  to  me  appears 
To  be  at  least  three  thousand  by  the  year. 

Uncle.  0,  sir,  I  was  too  late  informed  of  that  plot, 
How  that  he  went  about  to  cozen  you : 
And  formed  a  will,  and  sent  it  to  your  friend  there, 
Good  Master  Weathercock,  in  which  was  nothing  true, 
But  brags  and  lies. 

Launce.  Ha!  hath  he  not  such  lordships,  lands,  and 
ships  ? 

Uncle.  Not  worth  a  groat ,  not  worth  a  halfpenny,  he. 

Launce.  Pray,  tell  us  true  ;  be  plain,  young  Flower- 
dale. 

Flowerda.  My  uncle  's  mad,  disposed  to  do  me 

wrong; 

But  here's  my  man,  by  the  Lord,  an  honest  fellow, 
And  of  good  credit,  knows  [that]  all  is  true.    ' 

Fath.  Not  I,  sir;  I'm  too  old  to  lie  ;  I  rather  know 


53 


THE  LONDON  PRODIGAL. 


You  forged  a  will,  where  every  line  you  writ, 
You  studied  where  to  quote  your  lands  might  lie. 
Weath.  I  pr'ythee,  where  be  they,  my  honest  friend  ? 

Fath.  I'faith,  nowhere,  sir,  for  he  hath  none  at  all. 
Weath.  Benedict !  we  are  o'erreached,  I  believe. 

Launce.  I'm  cozened,  and  my  hopeful's!  child  un- 
done. 

Flow.  You  are  not  cozened,  nor  is  she  undone  j 
They  slander  me ;  by  this  light,  they  slander  me  : 
Look  you,  my  uncle  here's  an  usurer, 
And  would  undo  me,  but  I'll  stand  in  law  ; 
Do  you  but  bail  me,  you  shall  do  no  more  : 
You,  brother  Civet.  Master  Weathercock, 
Bail  me,  and  let  me  have  my  marriage-money, 
And  we'll  ride  down,  and  there  your  eyes  shall  see 
How  my  poor  tenants  there  will  welcome  me. 
You  shall  but  bail  me,  you  shall  do  no  more  ; 
And  you,  you  greedy  gnat,  their  bail  will  serve. 

Uncle.  Ay,  sir,  I'll  ask  no  better  bail. 

Launce.  No,  sir,  you  shall  not  take  my  bail,  nor  his, 
Nor  my  son  Civet's.     I'll  not  be  cheated.    Ay  ! 
Shrieve,  take  your  prisoner  ;  I'll  not  deal  with  him  ; 
Let's  uncle  make  false  dice  with  his  false  bones, 
I'll  not  have  to  do  with  him :  mocked,  gulled,  and 

wronged  ! 

Come,  girl,  though  it  be  late,  it  falls  out  well — 
Thou  shall  not  live  with  him  in  beggar's  hell. 

Luce.  He  is  my  husband,  and  high  Heaven  doth 

know, 

With  what  unwillingness  I  went  to  church, 
But  you  enforced  me,  you  compelled  me  to  it ; 
The  holy  man  pronounced  these  words  but  now : 
I  must  not  leave  my  husband  in  distress  : 
Now,  I  must  comfort  him,  not  go  with  you. 

Launce.  Comfort  a  cozener  !    On  my  curse  forsake 
him! 

Luce.  This  day  you  caused  me  on  your  curse  to 

take  him : 

Do  not,  I  pray,  my  grieved  soul  oppress ; 
God  knows  my  heart  doth  bleed  at  his  distress  ! 

Launce.  0,  Master  Weathercock,  I  must  confess 
I  forced  her  to  this  match, 
Led  with  opinion  his  false  will  was  true. 

Weath.  He  hath  o'erreached  me  too. 

Launce.  She  might  have  lived 

Like  Delia,  in  a  happy  virgin  state. 

Delia.  Father,  be  patient ;  sorrow  conies  too  late. 

Launce.  And  on  her  knees  she  begged  and  did  en- 
If  she  must  needs  taste  a  sad  marriage-life,  [treat, 
She  craved  to  be  Sir  Arthur  Greenshield's  wife. 

Art/i.  You  have  done  her  and  me  the  greater  wrong. 

Launce.  0,  take  her  yet. 

Arth.  Not  I. 

Launce.  Or,  Master  Oliver, 

Accept  my  child,  and  half  my  wealth  is  yours. 

Oli.  No,  sir,  chil  break  no  laws. 

Luce.  Never  fear,  she  will  not  trouble  you. 

Delia.  Yet,  sister,  in  this  passion 
Do  not  run  headlong  to  confusion  : 
You  may  affect  him,  though  not  follow  him. 

Frances.  No,  sister  ;  hang  him,  let  him  go. 

Weath.  Do,  'faith,  Mistress  Luce, 
Leave  him. 

Luce.  You  are  three  gross  fools,  let  me  alone  ! 
I  swear,  I'll  live  with  him  in  all  his  moan. 

OIL-  But  an  he  have  his  legs  at  liberty, 
Cham  aveard  he  will  never  live  with  you. 


Arth.  Ay,  but  he  is  now  in  huckster's  handling  for 
running  away. 

Launce.   Huswife,  you  hear  how  you  and  I   am 

wronged, 

And  if  you  will  redress  it  yet  you  may  : 
But  if  you  stand  on  terms  to  follow  him, 
Never  come  near  my  sight,  nor  look  on  me ; 
Call  me  not  father ;  look  not  for  a  groat ; 
For  all  the  portion  I  will  this  day  give 
Unto  thy  sister  Frances. 

Frances.  How  say  you  to  that,  Tom?    [To  CIVET. 
I  shall  hare  a  good  deal ; 
Besides,  I'll  be  a  good  wife ;  and  a  good  wife 
Is  a  good  thing  I  can  tell. 

Civet.  Peace,  Frank,  I  would  be  sorry  to  see  thy 
sister  cast  away,  as  I  am  a  gentleman. 

Launce.  What,  are  you  yet  resolved  ? 

Luce.  Yes,  I'm  resolved. 

Launce.  Come  then  away,  or  now,  or  never  come. 

Luce.  This  way  I  turn,  go  you  unto  your  feast, 
And  I  to  weep,  that  am  with  grief  oppressed. 

Launce.  For  ever  fly  my  sight.    Come,  gentlemen, 
Let's  in,  I'll  help  you  to  far  better  wives. 
Delia,  upon  my  blessing  talk  not  to  her ; 
Base  baggage,  in  such  haste  to  beggary  ! 

Uncle.  Sheriff,  take  your  prisoner  to  your  charge. 

Flow.  Uncle,  by  God,  you  have  used  me  very 

hardly ; 
By  my  troth,  upon  my  wedding-day. 

[Exeunt  Sir  LAUNCELOT,  CIVET,  and  all  but 
young  FLOWERDAXE,  his  Father,  Uncle, 
Sheriff,  and  Officers. 

Luce.  O,  Master  Flowerdale,  but  hear  me  speak; 
Stay  but  a  little  while,  good  Master  Sheriff; 
If  not  for  him,  for  my  sake  pity  him : 
Good  sir,  stop  not  your  ears  at  my  complaint, 
My  voice  grows  weak,  for  women's  words  are  faint. 

Flow.  Look  you,  uncle,  where  she  kneels  to  you. 

Uncle.  Fair  maid,  for  you,  I  love  you  with  my 

heart, 

And  grieve,  sweet  soul,  thy  fortune  is  so  bad, 
That  thou  shouldst  match  with  such  a  graceless 
Go  to  thy  father  ;  think  not  upon  him,  [youth; 

Whom  hell  hath  marked  to  be  the  son  of  shame. 

Luce.  Impute  his  wildness,  sir,  unto  his  youth, 
And  think  that  now's  the  time  he  doth  repent : 
Alas,  what  good  or  gain  can  you  receive, 
T'imprison  him  that  nothing  hath  to  pay  ? 
And  where  naught  is,  the  king  doth  lose  his  due  : 
O,  pity  him,  as  God  shall  pity  you. 

Uncle.  Lady,  I  know  his  humors  all  too  well, 
And  nothing  in  the  world  can  do  him  good, 
But  misery  itself  to  chain  him  with. 

Luce.  Say  that  your  debts  were  paid,  then  is  Le 
free. 

Uncle.  Ay,  virgin,  that  being  answered,  I  have 
But  that  to  him  is  as  impossible,  [done 

As  'twere  with  me  to  scale  the  pyramids. 
Shrieve,  take  your  prisoner ;  maiden,  fare  thee  welL 

Luce.  0,  go  not  yet,  good  Master  Flowerdale  : 
Take  my  word  for  the  debt ;  my  word,  my  bond. 

Flow.  Ay,  by  God,  uncle,  and  my  bond  too. 

Luce.  Alas,  I  ne'er  ought1  nothing  but  I  paid  it ; 
And  I  can  work  ;  alas,  he  can  do  nothing  : 
I  have  some  friends  perhaps  will  pity  me, 
His  chiefest  friends  do  seek  his  misery. 
1  "Ought" — owed. 


ACT  IV.  — SCENE  I. 


59 


All  that  I  can.  or  beg,  get,  or  receive, 
Shall  be  for  you  :  O,  do  not  turn  away : 
Methinks  that  one  with  face  so  reverent ; 
So  well  experienced  in  this  tottering  world, 
Should  have  some  feeling  of  a  maiden's  grief: 
For  my  sake,  for  his  father's,  your  brother's  sake, 
Ay,  for  your  soul's  sake,  that  doth  hope  for  joy, 
Pity  my  state  ;  do  not  two  souls  destroy. 

Uncle.  Fair  maid,  stand  up;  not  in  regard  of  him, 
But  in  [deep]  pity  of  thy  hapless  choice, 
I  do  release  him  :  Master  Shrieve,  I  thank  you : 
And  officers,  there  is  for  you  to  drink. 
Maid,  take  this  money,  there's  a  hundred  angels  ; 
And,  for  I  will  be  sure  he  shall  not  have  it, 
Here,  Kester,  take  it  you  ;  use't  sparingly, 
But  let  not  her  have  any  want  at  all. 
Dry  your  eyes,  niece,  do  not  too  much  lament 
For  him  whose  life  hath  been  in  riot  spent : 
If  well  he  useth  thee,  he  gets  him  friends  ; 
If  ill,  a  shameful  end  on  him  depends.   [Exit  UNCLE. 

Flow.  A  plague  go  with  you  for  an  old  fornicator : 
Come,  Kit,  the  money,  come,  honest  Kit. 

Faih.  Nay,  by  my  faith,  sir,  you  shall  pardon  me. 

Flow.  And  why,  sir,  pardon  you  ?  give  me  the 
money,  you  old  rascal,  or  I  shall  make  you. 

Luce.  Pray,  hold  your  hands,  give  it  him,  honest 
friend. 

Fath.  If  you  be  so  content,  with  all  my  heart. 

Flow.  Content,  sir;  'sblood!  —  she  shall  be  content 
Whether  she  will  or  no.    A  rattle-baby  come 
To  follow  me ! 

Go,  get  you  gone  to  the  greasy  chuff  your  father ; 
Bring  me  your  dowry,  or  never  look  on  me. 

Fath.  Sir,  she  hath  forsook  her  father,  and  all  her 
friends  for  you. 

Flow.  Hang  thee,  her  friends,  and  father,  alto- 
gether. 

Fath.  Yet  part  with  something  to  provide  her  lodg- 
ing. 

Flow.  Yes,  I  mean  to  part  with  her  and  you ;  but 
if  I  part  with  one  angel,  hang  me  at  a  post.  I'll 
rather  throw  them  at  a  cast  of  dice,  as  I  have  done 
a  thousand  of  their  fellows. 

Fath.  Nay,  then,  I  will  be  plain,  degenerate  boy, 
Thou  hadst  a  father  would  have  been  ashamed 

Flow.  My  father  was  an  ass,  an  old  ass. 

Fath.  Thy  father  ?     [Oh !   thou]  proud  licentious 

villain ; 
What  are  you  at  your  foils?    I'll  foil  with  you. 

Luce.  Good  sir,  forbear  him. 

Fath.  Did  not  this  whining  woman  hang  on  me, 
I'd  teach  thee  what  't  was  t'abuse  thy  father  : 
Go  hang,  beg,  starve,  dice,  game,  that  when  all's 

gone, 
Thou  may'st  after  despair  and  hang  thyself. 

Luce.  0,  do  not  curse  him. 

Fath.  I  do  not,  but  to  pray  for  him  were  vain ; 
It  grieves  me  that  he  bears  his  father's  name. 

Flow.  Well,  you  old  rascal,  I  shall  meet  with  you  : 
Sirrah,  get  you  gone;  I  will  not  strip  the  livery 
Over  your  ears,  because  you  paid  for  it : 
But  do  not  use  my  name,  sirrah,  do  you  hear  ? 
Look  [that]  you  do  not ;  you  were  best. 

Fath.  Pay  me  the  twenty  pound  then  that  I  lent 
Or  give  security  when  I  may  have  it.  [you, 

Flow.  I'll  pay  thee  not  a  penny  ; 
And  for  security,  I'll  give  thee  none. 


Minckins,1  look  you  do  not  follow  me  ; 
If  you  do,  beggar,  I  shall  slit  your  nose. 

Luce.  Alas,  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Flow.  Why  [not]  turn  whore  ?  that's  a  good  trade ; 
And  so  perhaps  I'll  see  thee  now  and  then. 

[Exit  FLOWERDALE. 

Luce.  Alas,  the  day  that  ever  I  was  born. 

Fath.  Sweet  mistress,  do  not  weep ;  I'll  stick  to 
you. 

Luce.  Alas,  my  friend,  I  know  not  what  to  do ; 
My  father  and  my  friends,  they  have  despised  me  : 
And  I,  a  wretched  maid,  thus  cast  away, 
Know  neither  where  to  go,  nor  what  to  say. 

Fath.  It  grieves  me  to2  the  soul  to  see  her  tears 
Thus  stain  the  crimson  roses  of  her  cheeks  : 
Lady,  take  comfort,  do  not  mourn  in  vain, 
I  have  a  little  living  in  this  town, 
The  which  I  think  comes  to  a  hundred  pound  ; 
All  that  and  more  shall  be  at  your  dispose  ; 
I'll  strait  go  help  you  to  some  strange  disguise, 
And  place  you  in  a  service  in  this  town : 
Where  you  shall  know  all,  yet  yourself  unknown  : 
Come,  grieve  no  more,  where  no  help  can  be  had, 
Weep  not  for  him,  that  is  more  worse  than  bad. 

Luce.  I  thank  you,  sir.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Room  in  Sir  LAUNCELOT  SPURCOCK'S 
House,  in  Kent. 

Enter  Sir  LAUNCELOT  SPURCOCK,  Sir  ARTHUR,  OLI- 
VER, WEATHERCOCK,  CIVET,  FRANCES,  and  DELIA. 

OK.  Well,  cha'  a  bin  zerved  many  a  sluttish  trick, 
But  such  a  lerripoop  as  thick  ych  was  ne'er  sarved 

Launce.  Son  Civet,  daughter  Frances,  bear  with  me, 
You  see  how  I  'm  pressed  down  with  inward  grief, 
About  that  luckless  girl.    But,  'tis  fallen  out 
With  me,  as  with  many  families  beside, 
They  are  most  unhappy,  that  are  most  beloved. 

Civet.  Father,  'tis  even  so  ;  'tis  fallen  out  so  ! 
But  what  the  remedy.    Set  hand  to  heart, 
And  let  it  pass.    Here  is  your  daughter  Frances, 
And  I.    We'll  not  say  that  we  will  bring  forth. 
As  witty  children,  but  as  pretty  children 
As  ever  she  was ;  though  she  had  the  prick3 
And  praise  for  a  pretty  wench.    But,  father, 
Dun4  is  the  mouse  ;  —  you'll  come  ? 

Launce.  Ay,  son  Civet,  I'll  come. 

Civ.  And  you,  Master  Oliver  ? 

OH.  Ay,  for  che  a  vext  out  this  veast,  chil  see  if  a 
Make  a  better  veast  there.  [gan 

Civ.  And  you,  Sir  Arthur  ? 

Arth.  Ay,  sir,  although  my  heart  be  full, 
I'll  be  a  partner  at  your  wedding  feast. 

Civ.  And  welcome  all  indeed,  and  welcome  ; 
Come,  Frank,  are  you  ready  ? 

1  Probably  a  corruption  of  mannikin,  or  minikin — a  little 
fellow. 

2  Old  copies  read,  "  at  the  soul." 

3  "  Prick"  was  the  centre  of  the  tarcet  in  archery.    It  was 
consequently  the  mark  shot  at.    "  Pricked  and  praised"  was 
a  common  phrase  to  designate  one  who  was  distinguished 
over  all— who  had  won  theprize. 

*  "  Dun  is  the  mouse."  That  is  to  say.  you  can  not  change 
the  color  of  the  thine  now.  A  proverbial  speech,  which  oc- 
curs in  Romeo  and  Juliet :  "  Tut :  dun's  the  mouse  " 


THE  LONDON  PRODIGAL. 


Frances.  Jeu,  how  hasty  all  these  husbands  are ; 
I  pray,  father,  pray  to  God  to  bless  me. 

Launce.  God  bless  thee,  and  I  do  ;  God  make  thee 
Rend  you  both  joy,  I  wish  it  with  wet  eyes,  [wise  j 

Frances.  But,  father,  shall  not  my  sister  Delia  go 
along  with  us !  She  is  excellent  good  at  cookery,  and 
such  things.  * 

Launce.'  Yes,  marry  shall  she :   Delia,  make  you 
ready. 

Delia.  I'm  ready,  sir,  I  will  first  go  to  Greenwich, 
From  thence  to  my  cousin  Chesterfield,  and  so 
To  London. 

Civ.  It  shall  suffice,  good  sister  Delia,  it  shall  suf- 
fice ;  but  fail  us  not,  good  sister  ;  give  order  to  cooks, 
and  others ;  for  I  would  not  have  my  sweet  Frank 
to  soil  her  fingers. 

Frances.  No,  by  my  troth,  not  I ;  a  gentlewoman, 
and  a  married  gentlewoman,  too,  to  be  companion  to 
cooks  and  kitchen-boys  ;  not  I,  i'faith ;  I  scorn  that. 

Civ.  Why,  I  do  not  mean  thou  shalt,  sweet  heart ; 
thou  seest  I  do  not  go  about  it :  Well,  farewell  to 
you.  God's  pity,  Mr.  Weathercock !  we  shall  have 
your  company  too  ? 

Wenth.  With  all  my  heart,  for  I  love  good  cheer. 

Civ.  Well,  God  be  with  you  all ;  come,  Frank. 

Frances.  God  be  with  you,  father,  God  be  with  you, 
Sir  Arthur,  Master  Oliver,  and  Master  Weathercock, 
sister  ;  God  be  with  you  all :  God  be  with  you,  father ; 
God  be  with  you  every  one. 

[Exeunt  CIVET  and  FRAHCES. 

Weath.  Why,  how  now,  Sir  Arthur,  all  a  mort  ? 
Master  Oliver,  how  now,  man  ? 
Cheerly,  Sir  Launcelot,  and  merrily  say, 
Who  can  hold  that  will  away  ? 

Launce.  Ay,  she  is  gone  indeed,  poor  girl,  undone  ; 
But  when  they'll  be  self-willed,  children  must  smart. 

Arth.  But,  that  she  is  wronged,  you  are  the  chiefest 

cause ; 
Therefore  'tis  reason  you  redress  her  wrong. 

Weath.  Indeed  you  must,  Sir  Launcelot,  you  must. 

Launce.  Must  ?  who  can  compel  me,  Master  Weath- 
I  hope  I  may  do  what  I  list.  [ercock  ? 

Weath.  I  grant  you  may,  you  may  do  what  you  list. 

Oli.  Nay,  but  and  you  be  well  evisen,  it  were  not 

good, 

By  this  vrampolness,  and  vrowardness,  to  cast  away 
As  pretty  a  Dowsabel,  as  ane  could  chance  to  see 
In  a  summer's  day :  chil  tell  you  what  chall  do, 
Chil  go  spy  up  and  down  the  town,  and  see 
If  I  can  hear  any  tale  or  tidings  of  her, 
And  take  her  away  from  thick  a  messel,  vor  cham 
Assured  he  will  but  bring  her  to  the  spoil ; 
And  so  var  well ;  we  shall  meet  at  your  son  Civet's. 

Launce.  I  thank  you,  sir,  I  take  it  very  kindly. 

Arth.  To  find  her  out,  I'll  spend  my  dearest  blood. 
So  well  I  loved  her,  to  effect  her  good. 

[Exeunt  both. 

Launce.  0,  Master  Weathercock,  what  hap  had  I 
To  force  my  daughter  from  Master  Oliver, 
And  this  good  knight,  to  one  that  hath  no  goodness 
In's  thought? 

Weath.  Ill  luck,  but  what  the  remedy? 

Launce.  Yes,  I  have  almost  devised  a  remedy, 
Young  Flowerdale  is  sure  a  prisoner. 

Weath.  Sure,  nothing  more  sure. 

Launce.  And  yet  perhaps  his  uncle  hath  released 
him. 


Weath.  It  may  be  very  like,  no  doubt  he  hath. 

Launce.  Well,  if  he  be  in  prison,  I'll  have  warrants 
T'attach  my  daughter  till  the  law  be  tried, 
For  I  will  sue  him  upon  cozenage. 

Weath.  Marry,  you  may,  and  overthrow  him  too. 

Launce.  Nay,  that's  not  so ;  I  may  chance  to  be 
And  sentence  passed  with  him.  [scoffed, 

Weath.  Believe  me,  so  it  may ;  therefore  take  heed. 

Launce.  Well  howsoever,  yet  I  will  have  warrants, 
In  prison,  or  at  liberty,  all's  one  : 
You'll  help  to  serve  them,  Master  Weathercock  ? 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— A  Street  in  London. 
Enter  MATTHEW  FLOWEHDALE. 

F low.  A  plague  of  the  devil ;  the  devil  take  the 
dice! — the  dice,  and  the  devil,  and  his  dam  together ! 
Of  all  my  hundred  golden  angels,  I  have  not  left  me 
one  denier :  a  pox  of  "  come  a  five."1  what  shall  I  do  ? 
I  can  borrow  no  more  of  my  credit :  there's  not  any 
of  my  acquaintance,  man,  nor  boy,  but  I  have  bor- 
rowed more  or  less  of ;  I  would  I  knew  where  to  take 
a  good  purse,  and  go  clear  away  ;  by  this  light,  I'll 
venture  for  it.  God's  lid,  my  sister  Delia!  I'll  rob  her, 
by  this  hand. 

Enter  DELIA  and  ARTICHOKE. 

Delia.  I  pr'ythee,  Artichoke,  go  not  so  fast, 
The  weather's  hot,  and  I  am  something  weary. 

Arti.  Nay,  I  warrant  you,  Mistress  Delia,  I'll  not 

tire  you 
With  leading,  we'll  go  an  extreme  moderate  pace. 

Flow.  Stand,  deliver  your  purse. 

Arti.  0,  Lord,  thieves,  thieves ! 

[Exit  ARTICHOKE. 

Flow.  Come,  come,  your  purse,  lady ;  your  purse. 

Delia.  That  voice  I  have  heard  often  before  this 

time; 
What,  brother  Flowerdale  become  a  thief? 

Flow.  Ay,  plague  on't! — thank  your  father! 
But  sister,  come,  your  money,  come  :    What ! 
The  world  must  find  me ;  I  was  born  to  li ve  j 
'Tis  not  a  sin  to  steal,  when  none  will  give. 

Delia.  O,  God,  is  all  grace  banished  from  thy  heart, 
Think  of  the  shame  that  doth  attend  this  fact. 

Flow.  Shame  me  no  shames  ;  come,  give  me  your 

purse ; 
I'll  bind  you,  sister,  lest  I  fare  the  worse. 

Delia.  No,  bind  me  not ;  hold  ;  there  is  all  I  have, 
And  would  that  money  would  redeem  thy  shame. 

Enter  OLIVER,  Sir  ARTHUR,  and  ARTICHOKE. 

Arti.  Thieves,  thieves,  thieves  ! 

OK.  Thieves  !  where  man  ?  why,  how  now,  Mis- 
tress Delia ; 
Ha'  you  a  liked  to  been  a  robbed  ? 

Delia.  No,  Master  Oliver,  'tis  Master  Flowerdale ; 
He  did  but  jest  with  me. 

Oli.  How,  Flowerdale,  that  scoundrel?  sirrah,  yon 
meten  us  well ;  vang4  thee  that.  [Strikes  him. 

Flow.  Well,  sir,  I'll  not  meddle  with  you,  because 
I  have  a  charge. 

1  *  Come  a  five  !"  was  his  invocation  to  the  dice  ; — a  pox 
on  it,  for  he  uttered  it  in  vain. 

«  Vang  thee  that — "  take  notice,"  in  the  jargon  of  Devon- 
shire. 


ACT  IV.  — SCENE  III. 


61 


Delia.  Here,  brother  Flowerdale,  I'll  lend  you  this 
same  money. 

Flow.  I  thank  you,  sister. 

OH.  I  wad  you  were  ysplit,  an  you  let  the  mezel 
have  a  penny ;  but  since  you  can  not  keep  it,  chil 
keep  it  myself. 

Arth.  'Tis  pity  to  relieve  him  in  this  sort, 
Who  makes  a  triumphant  life1  his  daily  sport. 

Delia.  Brother,  you  see  how  all  men  censure  you  : 
Farewell,  and  I  pray  God  t'amend  your  life. 

OIL  Come,  chil  bring  you  along,  and  you  safe 
enough  from  twenty  such  scoundrels  as  thick  an  one 
is.  Farewell,  and  be  hanged,  zirrah,  as  I  think  so 
thou  wilt  be  shortly.  Come,  Sir  Arthur. 

[Exeunt  all  but  FLOW- 

EHDALE. 

Flow.  A  plague  go  with  you  for  a  kersey  rascal ! 
This  De'nshire  man  I  think  is  made  all  pork, 
His  hands  made  only  for  to  heave  up  packs  ; 
His  heart  as  fat  and  big  as  his  face, 
As  differing  far  from  all  brave  gallant  minds, 
As  I  to  serve  the  hogs,  and  drink  with  hinds, 
As  I  am  very  near  now.    Well,  what  remedy? 
When  money,  means,  and  friends,  do  grow  so  small, 
Then  farewell  life,  and  there's  an  end  of  all !     [Exit. 

SCENE  III.— Another  Street,  before  Civet's  House. 

Enter  FLOWERDALE,  senior,  LUCE  like  a  Dutch  Frow, 
CIVET, and  FRANCES. 

Civ.  By  my  troth,  God  'a  mercy  for  this,  good  Chris- 
topher !  I  thank  thee  for  my  maid  j  like  her  well : 
how  dost  thou  like  her,  Frances  ? 

Frances.  In  good  sadness,  Tom,  very  well,  excel- 
lent well ; 
She  speaks  so  prettily. —  I  pray  what's  your  name  ? 

Luce.  My  name,  forsooth,  be  called  Tanikin. 

Frances.  By  my  troth,  a  fine  name  :  O  Tanikin,  you 
are  excellent  for  dressing  one's  head  a  new  fashion. 

Luce.  Me  sail  do  everyting  about  de  head. 

Civ.  What  countrywoman  is  she,  Kester  ? 

Fath.  A  Dutch  woman,  sir. 

Civ.  Why,  then,  she  is  outlandish,  is  she  not? 

Fatfi.  Ay,  sir,  she  is. 

Frances.  O,  then  thou  canst  tell  how  to  help  me  to 
cheeks  and  ears.2 

Luce.  Yes,  mistress,  wery  veil. 

Fath.  Cheeks  and  ears  !  Why,  Mistress  Frances, 
why  want  you  cheeks  and  ears  ?  methinks  you  have 
very  fair  ones. 

Frances.  Thou  art  a  fool,  indeed.  Tom,  thou  know- 
est  what  I  mean. 

Civ.  Ay,  ay,  Kester,  'tis  such  as  they  wear  o'  their 
heads.  I  pr'ythee,  Kit,  have  her  in,  and  show  her  my 
house. 

Fath.  I  will,  sir  ;  come,  Tanikin. 

Frances.  Oh !  Tom,  you  have  not  bussed  me  to- 
day, Tom. 

Civ.  No,  Frances,  we  must  not  kiss  afore  folks : 
God  save  me,  Frank  !  see  yonder  :  Delia's  come  ; — 

Enter  DELIA  and  ARTICHOKE. 

Welcome,  good  sister. 

1  Triumphant  life,  or  triumphant  vice  t  There  is  some- 
thing wrong  about  this  passage.  Some  happy  suggestion 
may  make  better  sense  of  it  to  the  reader. 

i  Malone  thinks  that  this  inquiry  relates  to  some  fashion- 
able head-dress. 


Frances.  Welcome,  sister;  how  do  you  like  the 
'tire  of  my  head  ? 
Delia.  Very  well,  sister. 

Civ.  I  am  glad  you're  come,  sister  Delia,  to  give 
order  for  supper  ;  they  will  be  here  soon. 

Arti.  Ay,  but  if  good  luck  had  not  served,  she  had 
not  been  here  now :  filching  Flowerdale  had  like  to 
have  peppered  us ;  but  for  Master  Oliver,  we  had 
been  robbed. 

Delia.  Peace,  sirrah  !  no  more. 

Fath.  Robbed  !  by  whom  ? 
Arti.  Marry,  by  none  but  Flowerdale  ;  he's  turned 

thief. 
Civ.  By  my  faith,  but  that's  not  well ;  but,  God  be 

praised 
For  your  escape  ;  will  you  draw  near,  my  sister  ? 

Fath.  Sirrah,  come  hither ;  would  Flowerdale,  he 
that  was  my  master,  have  robbed  you?  I  pr'ythee 
tell  me  true  ? 

Arti.  Yes,  faith,  even  that  Flowerdale  that  was  thy 
master. 

Fath.  Hold  thee,  there's  a  French  crown  —  speak 
no  more  of  this'.  [Aside. 

Arti.  Not  I ;  not  a  word  :  now  do  I  smell  knavery : 
In  every  purse  this  Flowerdale  takes,  he's  half— 
And  gives  me  this  to  keep  counsel :  not  a  word  I ! 
Fath.  Why,  God  ha'  mercy  ! 
Frances.  Sister,  look  here ;  I  have  a  new  Dutch 

maid, 

And  she  speaks  so  fine,  it  would  do  your  heart  good. 
Civ.  How  do  you  like  her,  sister  ?  • 

Delia,.  I  like  your  maid  well. 
Civ.  Well,  dear  sister,  will  you  draw  near,  and  give 
directions  for  supper  ?    The  guests  will  be  here  pres- 
ently. 

Delia.  Yes,  brother,  lead  the  way  ;  I'll  follow  you, 
[Exeunt  all  but  DELIA  and  LUCE. 
Hark  you,  Dutch  frow,  a  word. 
Luce.  Vat  is  your  vill  wit  me  ? 

Delia.  Sister  Luce,  'tis  not  your  broken  language, 
Nor  this  same  habit,  can  disguise  your  face 
From  I  that  know  you.    Pray  tell  me,  what  means 

this? 

Luce.  Sister,  I  see  you  know  me,  yet  be  secret : 
This  borrowed  shape  that  I  have  ta'en  upon  me 
Is  but  to  keep  myself  a  space  unknown, 
Both  from  my  father  and  my  nearest  friends, 
Until  I  see  how  time  will  bring  to  pass 
The  desperate  course  of  Master  Flowerdale. 
Delia.  0,  he  is  worse  than  bad  ;  I  pr'ythee  leave 

him, 
And  let  not  once  thy  heart  to  think  on  him. 

Luce.  Do  not  persuade  me  now  to  such  a  thought ; 
Imagine  yet  that  he  is  worse  than  naught : 
Yet  one  hour's3  time  may  all  that  ill  undo 
That  all  his  former  life  did  run  into. 
Therefore,  kind  sister,  do  not  disclose  my  state ; 
If  e'er  his  heart  doth  turn,  'tis  ne'er  too  late. 
Delia.  Well,  seeing  no  counsel  can  remove  youi 

mind. 

I'll  not  disclose  you,  that  art  wilful  blind. 
Luce.  Delia,  I  thank  you.    I  now  must  please  her 

eyes, 
My  sister  Frank,  who's  neither  fair  nor  wise. 

[Exeunt. 

3  The  old  folio  reads  "  lover's,"  and  it  is  barely  possible 
that  we  should  ascribe  his  cure  to  love  rather  than  time. 


62 


THE  LONDON  PRODIGAL. 


ACT    V. 

SCENE  I.—  Street  before  CIVET'S  House. 
Enter  M.  FLOWERDALE,  solus. 

Flow.  On  goes  he  that  knows  no  end  of  his  jour- 
ney !  I  have  passed  the  very  utmost  bounds  of  shift- 
ing ;  I  have  no  course  now  but  to  hang  myself.  I 
have  lived  since  yesterday,  two  o'clock,  of  a  spice- 
cake  I  had  at  a  burial :'  and  for  drink,  I  got  it  at  an 
alehouse,  among  porters — such  as  will  bear  out  a 
mau,  if  he  have  no  money  indeed,  —  I  mean,  out  of 
their  companies,  —  for  they  are  men  of  good  car- 
riage.* Who  comes  here  ?  The  two  cony-catchers, 
that  won  all  my  money  of  me.  I'll  try  if  they'll  lend 
me  any. 

Enter  DICK  and  RALPH. 

What,  Master  Richard,  how  do  you  do  ?  How  do'st 
thou,  Ralph  ?  By  God  !  gentlemen,  the  world  grows 
bare  with  me  :  will  you  do  as  much  as  lend  me  an 
angel  between  you  both  ?  —  you  know  you  won  a 
hundred  of  me  t'other  day. 

Ralph.  How,  an  angel? 

Damn  us  if  we  lost  not  every  penny 
Within  an  hour  after  thou  wert  gone  ! 

Flow.  I  pr'ythee  lend  me  so  much  as  will  pay  lor 

my  supper ; 
I'll  pay  you  again,  as  I  am  a  gentleman. 

Ralph.  I'faith,  we've  not  a  farthing,  not  a  mite: 
I  wonder  at  it,  Master  Flowerdale, 
You  will  so  carelessly  undo  yourself. 
Why,  you  will  lose  more  money  in  an  hour, 
Than  any  honest  man  spends  in  a  year. 
For  shame,  betake  you  to  some  honest  trade, 
And  live  not  thus  so  like  a  vagabond ! 

[Exeunt  both. 

Flow.  A  vagabond,  indeed !  more  villains  you : 
They  give  me  counsel  that  first  cozened  me. 
Those  devils  first  brought  me  to  this  I  am, 
And,  being  thus,  the  first  that  do  me  wrong. 
Well,  yet  I  have  one  friend  left  me  in  store : 
Not  far  from  hence  there  dwells  a  cockatrice,3 
One  that  I  first  put  in  a  satin  gown ; 
And  not  a  tooth  that  dwells  within  her  head, 
But  stands  me  at  the  least  in  twenty  pound : 
Her  will  I  visit,  now  my  coin  is  gone, 
Here,  as  I  take  it,  dwells  the  gentlewoman. 
What,  ho  !  is  Mistress  Apricock  within  ? 

Enter  RUFFIAN. 

Ruff.  What  saucy  rascal  is't  that  knocks  so  bold  ? 
Oh  !  is  it  you,  old  spendthrift  ?  are  you  here? 
One  that's  turned  cozener  about  the  town  ? 
My  mistress  saw  you,  and  sends  this  word  by  me : 
Either  be  packing  quickly  from  the  door, 
Or  you  shall  have  such  greeting  sent  you  straight 
As  you  will  little  like.    You  had  best  begone.  [Exit. 

i  There  was  always  some  refreshment  at  ancient  funerals  : 
rich  cake  for  the  mourners,  and  poor  cake  (which  includes 
the  prodigal's  spice-cake)  for  the  populace. 

s  A  quibble  between  carrying  burden*  and  demeanor. 

MAI.ONK. 

»  A  prostitute. 


Flow.  Why,  so,  this  is  as  it  should  be  :  being  poor, 
Thus  art  thou  served  by  a  vile,  painted  whore 
Well,  since  the  damned  crew  do  so  abuse  me, 
I'll  try,  of  honest  men,  how  they  will  use  me. 

Enter  an  ancient  Citizen. 

Sir,  I  beseech  you  to  take  compassion  of  a  man  ;  one 
whose  fortunes  have  been  better  than  at  this  instant 
they  seem  to  be :  but  if  I  might  crave  of  you  so  much 
little  portion  as  would  bring  me  to  my  friends,  I  would 
rest  thankful  until  I  had  requited  so  great  a  courtesy. 

Citi.  Fie  !  fie  !  young  man,  this  course  is  very  bad ; 
Too  many  such  have  we  about  this  city ; 
Yet,  for  I  have  not  seen  you  in  this  sort, 
Nor  noted  you  to  be  a  common  beggar  — 
Hold,  there's  an  angel  to  bear  your  charges  down  : 
Go  to  your  friends  ;  do  not  on  this  depend ; 
Such  bad  beginnings  oft  have  worser  end. 

[Exit  Citizen. 

Flow.  Worser  end !  Nay,  if  it  fall  out  no  worse 
than  in  old  angels,  I  care  not !  Now,  that  I  have 
had  such  a  fortunate  beginning,  I'll  not  let  a  six- 
penny purse  escape  me.  By  the  mass,  here  comes 
another ! 

Enter  a  Citizen's  Wife,  with  Servant,  and  a  torch  be- 
fore her. 

God  bless  you,  fair  mistress  !  Now,  would  it  please 
you,  gentlewoman,  to  look  into  the  wants  of  a  poor 
gentleman  —  a  younger  brother:  I  doubt  not  but  God 
will  treble  restore  it  back  again  ;  one  that  never  be- 
fore this  lime  demanded  penny,  halfpenny,  nor  far- 
thing? 

Citi.  Wife.  Stay,  Alexander.  Now,  by  my  troth,  a 
very  proper  man;  and  'tis  great  pity.  Hold,  my 
friend;  there's  all  the  money  I  have  about  me  —  a 
couple  of  shillings :  and  God  bless  thee. 

Flow.  Now  God  thank  you,  sweet  lady :  if  you  have 
any  friend,  or  garden-house  where  you  may  employ 
a  poor  gentleman  as  your  friend,  I  am  yours  to  com- 
mand in  all  secret  service. 

Citi.  Wife.  I  thank  you,  good  friend  ;  I  pr'ythee  let 
me  see  that  again  I  gave  thee  ;  there  is  one  of  them 
a  brass  shilling :  give  me  them,  and  here  is  half-a- 
crown  in  gold.  [He  gives  it  her. 

Now  out  upon  thee,  rascal !  Secret  service  —  what 
dost  thou  make  of  me  ?  It  were  a  good  deed  to  have 
thee  whipped  !  Now  I  have  my  money  again,  I'll  see 
thee  hanged  before  I  give  thee  a  penny.  Secret  ser- 
vice !  —  On,  good  Alexander.  [Exeunt  both. 

Flow.  This  is  villanous  luck ;  I  perceive  dishonesty 
will  not  thrive  :  here  comes  more  !  God  forgive  me ! 
Sir  Arthur  and  Master  Oliver  !  Afore  God,  I'll  speak 
to  them.  God  save  you,  Sir  Arthur.  God  save  you, 
Master  Oliver. 

OK.  Been  you  there,  zirrah  ?  Come,  will  you  taken 
yourself  to  your  tools,  coystrel  ? 

Flow.  Nay,  Master  Oliver,  I'll  not  fight  with  you ; 
alas !  sir,  you  know  it  was  not  my  doings ;  it  was 
only  a  plot  to  get  Sir  Launcelot's  daughter :  by  God, 
I  never  meant  you  harm. 

OH.  And  where  is  the  gentlewoman  thy  wife,  me- 
zel  ?  Where  is  she,  zirrah,  ha  ? 

Flow.  By  my  troth,  Master  Oliver,  sick,  very  sick  ; 
an  God  is  my  judge,  I  know  not  what  means  to  take 
for  her,  good  gentlewoman. 


ACT  V.— SCENE  I. 


63 


OK.  Tell  me  true,  is  she  sick  ?  Tell  me  true,  itch 
"vise  thee. 

Flow.  Yes,  faith,  I  tell  you  true  :  Master  Oliver, 
if  you  would  do  me  the  small  kindness  but  to  lend  me 
forty  shillings,  so  God  help  me,  I  will  pay  you  so  soon 
as  my  ability  shall  make  me  able,  as  I  am  a  gentle- 
man. 

OH.  Well,  thou  zayest  thy  wife  is  zick :  hold, 
there's  vorty  shillings ;  give  it  to  thy  wife ;  look  thou 
give  it  her,  or  I  shall  so  veze  thee,  thou  wert  not  so 
vezed  this  zeven  year ;  look  to  it. 

Arth.  I'faith,  Master  Oliver,  it  is  in  vain 
To  give  to  him  that  never  thinks  of  her. 

OK.  Well,  would  che  could  yvind  it. 

Flow.  I  tell  you  true,  Sir  Arthur,  as  I  am  a  gentle- 
man. 

Oli.  Well,  farewell,  zirrah.    Come,  Sir  Arthur. 

[Exeunt  both. 

Flow.  By  the  Lord,  this  is  excellent ! 
Five  golden  angels  compassed  in  an  hour : 
If  this  trade  hold,  I'll  never  seek  a  new; — 
Welcome,  sweet  gold,  and  beggary  adieu. 

Enter  FLOWERDALE,  senior,  and  FLO WERDALE,  junior. 

Uncle.  See,  Kester,  if  you  can  find  the  house. 

Flow.  Who's  here  —  my  uncle,  and  my  man  Kes- 
ter ?  By  the  mass,  'tis  they  !  How  do  you,  uncle  ? 
how  do'st  thou,  Kester?  By  my  troth,  uncle,  you 
must  needs  lend  me  some  money ;  the  poor  gentle- 
woman my  wife,  so  God  help  me,  is  very  sick  ;  I  was 
robbed  of  the  hundred  angels  you  gave  me  j  they  are 
gone. 

Uncle.  Ay,  they  are  gone,  indeed  :  come,  Kester, 
away. 

Flow.  Nay,  uncle,  do  you  hear  ?  good  uncle  ! 

Uncle.  Out,  hypocrite  !  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak. 
Come,  leave  him,  Kester. 

Flow.  Kester,  honest  Kester  ! 

Fath.  Sir,  I  have  naught  to  say  to  you. — 
Open  the  door  to  me.  'Kin,  thou  hadst  best 
Lock  fast,  for  there's  a  false  knave  [here]  without. 

Flow.  You  are  an  old  lying  rascal,  so  you  are  ! 
[FLOWERDALE,  sen.,  and  FLOWERDALE,  jun.,  go  in. 

Enter  LUCE  from  CIVET'S  House. 

Luce.  Vat  is  de  matter  ?    Vat  be  you,  yonker  ? 

Flow.  By  this  light,  a  Dutch  frow  j  they  say  they 
are  called  kind ;  I'll  try  her. 

Luce.  Vat  be  you,  yonker  ?  Why  do  you  not  speak  ? 

Flow.  By  my  troth,  sweetheart,  a  poor  gentleman 
that  would  desire  of  you,  if  it  stand  with  your  liking, 
the  bounty  of  your  purse. 

Re-enter  FLOWERDALE,  senior. 

Luce.  0  hear  him,  God !  so  young  an  armin.1 

Flow.  Armin,  sweetheart?  I  know  not  what  you 
mean  by  that ;  but  I  am  almost  a  beggar. 

Luce.  Are  you  not  a  married  man  ?  Vere  been  your 
vife  ?  Here's  all  I  have  ;  take  dis. 

Flow.  What !  gold,  young  frow  ?    This  is  brave. 

Fath.  If  he  have  any  grace,  he'll  now  repent. 

[Aside. 

Luce.  Why  speak  you  not  ?    Vere  be  your  vife  ? 

1  Armin — beggar. 

5 


Flow.  Dead,  dead,  she's  dead ;  'tis  she  that  hath 
undone  me  ?  Spent  me  all  I  had,  and  kept  rascals 
under  my  nose  to  brave  me. 

Luce.  Did  you  use  her  veil? 

Flow.  Use  her !  there's  never  a  gentlewoman  in 
England  could  be  better  used  than  I  did  her.  I  could 
but  coach  her ;  her  diet  stood  me  in  forty  pound  a 
month  ;  but  she  is  dead,  and  in  her  grave  ;  my  cares 
are  buried. 

Luce.  Indeed !  dat  vas  not  scone.9 

Fath.  He  is  turned  more  devil  than  he  was  before. 

[Aside. 

Flow.  Thou  dost  belong  to  Master  Civet  here : 
Dost  thou  not  ? 

Luce.  Yes,  me  do. 

Flow.  Why,  there's  it ! 

There's  not  a  handful  of  plate  but  [it]  belongs 
To  me.    God's  my  judge,  if  I  [but]  had 
Such  a  wench  as  thou,  there's  never  a  man 
In  England  would  make  more  of  her  than  I 
Would  do  —  so  she  had  any  stock  ? 

[Voice  within.}  Why,  Tanikin  ! 

Luce.  Stay ;  one  doth  call.  I  shall  come  by-and- 
by.  Again !  [Call  within.  Exit  LUCE  uithin. 

Flow.  By  this  hand,  this  Dutch  wench  is  in  love 
Were  it  not  admirable  to  make  her  steal  [with  me  ! 
All  Civet's  plate,  and  run  away  [with  me]  ? 

Fath.  It  were  beastly  !    0,  Master  Flowerdale  ! 
Have  you  no  fear  of  God,  nor  conscience  ? 
What  do  you  mean  by  this  vile  course  you  take  ? 

Flow.  Whatdolmean?  why,to  live:  'tis  that  I  mean. 

Fath.  To  live  in  this  sort  ?  fie  upon  the  course  ! 
Your  life  doth  show,  you  are  a  very  coward. 

Flow.  A  coward  !  1  pray  in  what  ? 

Fath.  Why,  you  will  borrow  sixpence  of  a  boy. 

Flow.  'Snails,  is  there  such  a  cowardice  in  that  ? 
I  dare  borrow  it  of  a  man  ;  ay,  and  of  the  tallest  man 
in  England, — if  he  will  lend  it  me  :  let  me  borrow  it 
how  I  can,  and  let  them  come  by  it  how  they  dare. 
And  it  is  well  known,  I  might  have  rid  out  a  hundred 
times  if  I  would ;  so  I  might. 

Fath.  It  was  not  want  of  will,  but  cowardice ; 
There  is  none  that  lends  to  you,  but  know  they  gain  ; 
And  what  is  that  but  only  stealth  in  you  ? 
Delia  might  hang  you  now,  did  not  her  heart 
Take  pity  of  you  for  her  sister's  sake. 
Go,  get  you  hence,  lest  ling'ring  here  your  stay, 
You  fall  into  their  hands  you  look  not  for. 

Flow.  I'll  tarry  here,  till  the  Dutch  frow  comes,  il 
all  the  devils  in  hell  were  here. 

FLOWERDALE,  senior,  goes  into  CIVET'S  House.  Enter 
Sir  LAUNCELOT,  Master  WEATHERCOCK,  and  ARTI- 
CHOKE. 

Launce.  Where  is  the  door?  are  we  not  past  it, 
Artichoke  ? 

Arti.  By  the  mass,  here's  one ;  I'll  ask  him.  Do 
you  hear,  sir?  What,  are  you  so  proud?  Do  you 
hear?  which  is  the  way  to  Master  Civet's  house? 
what,  will  you  not  speak  ?  0,  me  !  This  is  filching 
Flowerdale. 

Lance.  0,  wonderful !  is  this  lewd  villain  here  ? 
You  cheating  rogue,  you  cutpurse,  cony-catcher, 
What  ditch,  you  villain,  is  my  daughter's  grave? 
A  cozening  rascal,  that  must  make  a  will ! 

S  Nicht-schoon—"  not  handsome." 


64 


THE  LONDON  PRODIGAL. 


Take  on  him  that  strict  habit ;  very  that ;  — 
When  he  should  turn  to  angel ;  a  dying  grace  !  [will: 
I'll  father-in-law  you,  sir;  I'll  make  [you  make]  a 
Speak,  villain,  where's  my  daughter  ?     [Speak,  I 

say !] 

Poisoned,  I  warrant  you,  or  knocked  o'  the  head ! 
And  to  abuse  good  Master  Weathercock, 
With  his  forged  will ;  and  Master  Weathercock, 
To  make1  my  grounded  resolution  ; 
Then  to  abuse  the  De'nshire  gentleman : 
Go ;  away  with  him  to  prison. 
Flow.  Wherefore  to  prison  ?    Sir,  I  will  not  go. 

Enter  Master  CIVET,  his  Wife,  OLIVER,  Sir  AHTHUB, 

FLO  WERDALE,  senior  and  junior,  and  DELIA. 

Launce.  Oh !  here's  his  nncle !    Welcome,  gentle- 

men, 

Welcome  all !    Such  a  cozener  gentlemen  ! 
A  murderer  too,  for  anything  I  know  ;  — 
My  daughter's  missing  ;  hath  been  looked  for ;  can 
Be  found  !  —  A  vild  upon  thee  !  [not 

Uncle.  He  is  my  kinsman,  though  his  life  be  vile ; 
Therefore,  in  God's  name,  do  with  him  what  you  will. 

Launce.  Marry,  to  prison. 

Flow.  Wherefore  to  prison  ?  snick-up  ;*  I  owe  you 
nothing. 

Launce.  Bring  forth  my  daugher,  then ;  away  with 
him. 

Flow .  Go  seek  your  daughter ;  what  do  you  lay  to 
my  charge  ? 

Launce.  Suspicion  of  murder ;  go,  away  with  him. 

Flow.  Murder  your  dogs  ;  I  murder  your  daughter  ? 
Come,  uncle  ;  I  know  you'll  bail  me. 

Uncle.  Not  I,  were  there  no  more, 
Than  I  the  gaoler,  thou  the  prisoner. 

Launce.  Go  j  away  with  him. 

Enter  LUCE. 

Luce.  O'my  life,  where  will  you  ha  de  man  ? 
Vat  ha  de  yonker  done  ? 

Weath.  Woman,  he  hath  killed  his  wife. 

Luce.  His  wife,  dat  is  not  good ;  dat  is  not  scone.3 

Launce.  Hang  not  upon  him,  huswife  ;  if  you  do 
I'll  lay  you  by  him. 

Luce.  Have  me  no  oder  way  dan  you  have  him  ! 
He  tell  me  dat  he  love  me  heartily. 

France*.  Lead  away  my  maid  to  prison ;  why, 
Tom,  will  you  suffer  that? 

Civet.  No,  by  your  leave,  father,  she  is  no  vagrant : 
She  is  my  wife's  chambermaid,  and  as  true  as  the  skin 
Between  any  man's  brows  here. 

Launce.  Go  to,  you're  both  fools : 
Son  Civet,  o'  my  life,  this  is  a  plot ; 
Some  straggling  counterfeit  preferred  to  you  ; 
No  doubt,  to  rob  you  of  your  plate  and  jewels : 
I'll  have  you  led  away  to  prison,  trull. 

Luce.  I  am  no  trull,  neither  outlandish  frow ; 
Nor  he,  nor  I,  shall  to  the  prison  go  : 
Know  you  me  now  ?  Nay,  never  stand  amazed. 
Father,  I  know  I  have  offended  you, 
And  though  that  duty  wills  me  bend  my  knee, 

1  To  unmake,  rather— to  mar. 

3  Malone  tells  us  that  "snick-up"  is  equivalent  to  the 
modern  phrase,  "  go  hang  yourself.'1 
»  Not  handsome — Xicht'-schoon. 


To  you,  in  duty  and  obedience ; 

Yet  this  way  do  I  turn,  and  to  him  yield 

My  love,  my  duty,  and  my  humbleness. 

Launce.  Bastard  in  nature,  kneel  to  such  a  slave? 

Luce.  0,  Master  Flowerdale,  if  too  much  grief 
Have  not  stopped  up  the  organs  of  your  voice, 
Then  speak  to  her  that  is  thy  faithful  wife  ; 
Or  doth  contempt  of  me  thus  tie  thy  tongue  : 
Turn  not  away,  I  ara  no  Ethiop, 
No  wanton  Cressid,  nor  a  changing  Helen : 
But  rather  one  made  wretched  by  thy  loss. 
What !  turnest  thou  still  from  me  ?    O,  then, 
I  guess  thee  wofullest  'mong  hapless  men. 

Flow.  I  am,  indeed,  wife  ;  —  wonder  among  wives  ! 
Thy  chastity  and  virtue  hath  infused 
Another  soul  in  me ;  red  with  defame, 
For,  in  my  blushing  cheeks  is  seen  my  shame. 

Launce.  Out,  hypocrite  !  I  charge  thee,  trust  him 
not. 

Luce.  Not  trust  him  ;  by  the  hopes  of  after  bliss, 
I  know  no  sorrow  can  be  compared  to  his. 

Launce.  Well,  since  thou  wert  ordained  to  beggary, 
Follow  thy  fortune.  I  defy  thee,  I 

OIL  Ywood  che  were  so  well  ydoussed  as  was  ever 

white 
Cloth  in  locking  mill,  an  che  ha  not  made  me  weep. 

F ath.  If  he  hath  any  grace  he'll  now  repent. 

Arth.  It  moves  my  heart. 

Weath.    By  my  troth,  I  must  weep ;  I  can  not 
choose. 

Uncle.  None  but  a  beast  would  such  a  maid  misuse. 

Flow.  Content  thyself ;  I  hope  to  win  his  favor, 
And  to  redeem  my  reputation  lost : 
And  gentlemen,  believe  me,  I  beseech  you ; 
I  hope  your  eyes  shall  [soon]  behold  such  change, 
As  shall  deceive  your  expectation. 

OIL  I  would  che  were  split  now,  but  che  believ« 
him. 

Launce.  How,  believe  him  ? 

Weath.  By  the  mackins,  I  do. 

Launce.  What  do  you  think  that  ever  he'll  have 
grace? 

Weath.  By  my  faith  it  will  go  hard. 

OIL  Well,  che  vor  ye  he  is  changed ;  and  Master 
Flowerdale,  in  hope  you  been  so,  hold,  there's  vorty 
pound  toward  your  zettingup :  what !  be  not  ashamed ; 
vang  it  man,  vang  it ;  be  a  good  husband  ;  loving  to 
your  wife :  and  you  shall  not  want  for  vorty  more,  I 
che  vor  thee. 

Arth.  My  means  are  little,  but  if  you'll  allow*  me 
I  will  instruct  you  in  my  ablest  power : 
But  to  your  wife  I  give  this  diamond ; 
And  prove  true  diamond,  fair,  in  all  your  life. 

Flow.  Thanks,  good  Sir  Arthur :  Master  Oliver, 
You  being  my  enemy,  and  grown  so  kind, 
Binds  me  in  all  endeavor  to  restore. 

0/f.  What !  restore  me  no  restorings,  man;  I  hare 
vorty  pound  more  here;  vang  it:  zouth  chil  devie 
London  else :  what,  do  not  think  me  a  mezel  or  a 
scoundrel,  to  throw  away  my  money  ?  che  have  an 
hundred  pound  more  to  pace  of  any  good  spotation : 
I  hope  your  under  and  your  uncle  will  vollow  my 
zamples. 

Uncle.  You  have  guessed  right  of  me  ;  if  he  leave 
This  course  of  life,  he  [yet]  shall  be  mine  heir,  [off 

*  The  old  copies  read,  "  follow." 


ACT  V.— SCENE  I. 


65 


Launce.  But  he  shall  never  get  a  groat  of  me ! 
A  cozener,  a  deceiver;  one  that  killed 
His  painful  father;  honest  gentleman, 
That  passed  the  fearful  danger  of  the  sea, 
To  get  him  living  and  maintain  him  brave. 

Weath.  What !  hath  he  killed  his  father  ? 

Launce.  Ay,  sir,  with  conceit 

Of  his  vile  courses. 

Path.  Sir,  you  are  misinformed. 

Launce.  Why,  thou  old  knave,  thou  told'st  me  so 
thyself. 

Path.  I  wronged  him,  then ;  toward  my  master's 
There's  twenty  nobles  for  to  make  amends,  [stock 

Flow.  No,  Kest,  I've  troubled  thee,  and  wronged 

thee  more ; 
What  thou  in  love  giv'st,  I  in  love  restore. 

Frances.  Ha !  ha  !  sister,  there  you  played  bo-peep 

with  Tom ; 

What  shall  I  give  her  toward  her  household,  sister  ? 
Delia,  shall  I  give  her  my  fan? 

Delia.  You  were  best  ask  your  husband. 

Frances.  Shall  I,  Tom  ? 

Civet.  Ay,  do,  Frank ; 
I'll  buy  thee  a  new  one,  with  a  longer  handle. 

Frances.  A  russet  one,  Tom? 

Civet.  Ay,  with  russet  feathers. 

Frances.  Here,  sister,  there's  my  fan  toward  your 

household, 
To  keep  you  warm.1 

Luce.  I  thank  you,  sister. 

Weath.  Why,  this  is  well  j  and  toward  fair  Luce's 

stock, 

Here's  forty  shillings  :  and  forty  good  shillings  more, 
I'll  give  her,  marry.     Come,  Sir  Launcelot,  I 
Must  have  you  friends. 

Launce.  Not  I ;  all  this  is  counterfeit ! 

He  will  consume  it,  were  it  a  million. 

Fath.  Sir,  what  is  your  daughter's  dower  worth? 

Launce.  Had  she  been  married  to  an  honest  man, 
It  had  been  better  than  a  thousand  pound. 

Fath.  Pay  it  him,  [then]  and  I'll  give  you  my  bond, 
To  make  her  jointure  better  worth  than  three. 

Launce.  Your  bond,  sir  !  why,  what  are  you  ? 

Fath.  One  whose  word  in  London,  though  I  say  it, 
Will  pass  there  for  as  much  as  yours. 

Launce.  Wert  not  thou  late,  that  unthrift's  serving- 
man? 

Fath.  Look  on  me  better,  now  my  scar  is  off; 
Ne'er  muse,  man,  at  this  metamorphosis. 

Launce.  Master  Flowerdale ! 

Flow.  My  father  !  Oh  !  I  shame  to  look  on  him. 
Pardon,  dear  father,  the  follies  that  are  passed. 

Fath.  Son,  son,  I  do,  and  joy  at  this  thy  change ; 

1  We  must  not  think  too  lightly  of  the  gift,  toward  Luce's 
housekeeping,  of  the  silly  sister  Frances.  Fans  were  costly 
thin«§  »t  the  period  of  our  play.  Their  handles  were  of 
considerable  length,  probably  to  be  used  by  pages,  and  were 
of  silver,  and  inlaid  with  ornaments. 


And  'plaud  thy  fortune  in  this  virtuous  maid, 
Whom  Heaven  hath  sent  to  thee  to  save  thy  soul. 

Luce.  This  addeth  joy  to  joyj  high  Heaven  be 
praised. 

Weath.  Welcome  from  death,  good  Master  Flower- 
dale. 
'Twas  said  so  here,  'twas  said  so  here,  good  faith. 

Fath.  I  caused  that  rumor  to  be  spread  myself, 
Because  I'd  see  the  humors  of  my  son, 
Which  to  relate  the  circumstance  is  needless : 
And,  sirrah,  see  you  run  no  more  in  that  disease  ; 
For  he  that's  once  cure"d  of  that  malady, 
Of  riot,  swearing,  drunkenness,  and  pride, 
And  falls  again  into  the  like  distress, — 
That  fever  is  deadly ;  —  doth  till  death,  endure : 
Such  men  die  mad,  as  of  a  calenture. 

Flow.  Heaven  helping  me,  I'll  hate  the  course  as 
hell. 

Uncle.  Say  it,  and  do  it,  cousin,  all  is  well. 

Launce.  Well,  being  in  hope  you'll  prove  an  honest 

man, 

I  take  you  to  my  favor.    Brother  Flowerdale, 
Welcome  with  all  my  heart.    1  see  your  care 
Hath  brought  these  acts  to  this  conclusion, 
And  I  am  glad  of  it ;  come,  let's  in  and  feast. 

OK.  Nay,  zost  you  a  while  ;  you  promised  to  make 
Sir  Arthur  and  me  amends  ;  here  is  your  wisest 
Daughter ;  see  which  on's  she'll  have. 

Launce.  A'  God's  name,  you  have  my  good  will ; 
get  hers. 

Oli.  How  say  you,  then,  damsel ;  tyters  hate  ? 

Delia.  I,  sir,  am  yours. 

0/t.  Why,  then,  send  for  the  vicar,  and  chil  have  it 
Despatched  in  a  trice,  so  chil. 

Delia.  Pardon  me,  sir  ;  I  mean  [that]  I  am  yours, 
In  love,  in  duty,  and  affection  ; 
But  not  to  love  as  wife  ;  shall  ne'er  be  said, 
Delia  was  buried  married,  but  a  maid. 

Arth.  Do  not  condemn  yourself  for  ever  [thus] , 
[Most]  virtuous  fair  ;  for  you  were  born  to  love. 

Oli.  Why,  you  say  true,  Sir  Arthur  ;  she  was  ybore 

to  it, 

So  well  as  her  mother :  —  but  I  pray  you  show  us 
Some  zamples  or  reasons  why  you  will  not  marry? 

Delia.  Not  that  I  do  condemn  a  married  life, 
For  'tis,  no  doubt,  a  sanctimonious  thing : 
But  for  the  care  and  crosses  of  a  wife, 
The  trouble  in  this  world  that  children  bring, 
My  vow's  in  heaven,  on  earth  to  live  alone ; 
Husbands,  however  good,  I  will  have  none. 

Oli.  Why,  then,  chil  live  a  bachelor  too !  Che 
zet  not  a  vig  by  a  wife,  if  a  wife  zet  not  a  vig  by  me : 
come,  shall's  go  to  dinner? 

Fath.  To-morrow  I  crave  your  companies  in  Mark- 
To-night  we'll  frolic  in  Master  Civet's  house,  [lane  : 
And  to  each  health  drink  down  a  full  carouse. 

[Exeunt. 


THE  END  OF  THE  LONDON  PRODIGAL. 


INTRODUCTION 


TO 


THOMAS    LORD    CROMWELL. 


THE  first  edition  of  this  play  was  published  in  1602, 
onder  the  title  of  the  "  Chronicle  History  of  Thomas 
Lord  Cromwell."  No  name  or  initials,  of  any  author, 
appear  in  the  titlepage  of  this  edition.  "  A  booke 
called  the  Life  and  Death  of  the  Lord  Cromwell,  as 
yt  was  lately  acted  by  the  Lord  Chamberleyn  his 
Servantes,"  was  entered  on  the  stationer's  books,  by 
William  Cotton,  on  the  llth  August,  of  the  same 
year.  In  1613  appeared  "  The  True  Chronicle  His- 
torie  of  the  whole  Life  and  Death  of  Thomas  Lord 
Cromwell :  as  it  hath  been  sundry  times  publickly 
acted  by  the  King's  Majestie's  Servants  :  Written  by 
W.  S."  It  appears,  therefore,  that  the  play  was  ori- 
ginally performed,  and  continued  to  be  performed, 
by  the  company  in  which  Shakspeare  himself  was  a 
chief  proprietor.  Whether  this  fact  can  make  at  all, 
either  one  way  or  the  other,  in  resolving  the  question 
of  authorship,  is  a  matter  which  the  reader  may  de- 
cide for  himself,  quite  as  readily  as  if  he  had  the 
assistance  of  an  editor.  Shakspeare  was  in  London, 
and  connected  with  the  actors,  as  a  proprietor,  up  to 
1613,  the  year  when  this  play  was  first  published  with 
the  initials  W.  S. ;  and  we  are,  therefore,  almost  at 
liberty  to  assume  that,  if  not  by  himself,  and  by  an- 


other having  the  same  initials,  he  was  yet  not  unwil- 
ling that  his  theatre  should  derive  from  the  publica 
tion  all  the  advantages  which  might  be  expected  to 
accrue  from  his  supposed  authorship  of  the  piece. 

Beyond  the  initials,  in  the  edition  of  1613,  there  is 
no  external  evidence  whatever,  by  which  we  should 
ascribe  Sir  Thomas  Cromwell  to  William  Shakspeare. 
If  the  question  depended  upon  the  intrinsic  evidence, 
assuming,  for  the  standards  by  which  to  judge  of  its 
qualities,  any  of  the  acknowledged  and  unquestiona- 
ble plays  of  his  mature  genius,  we  should  unhesita- 
tingly reject  the  claim.  There  is  nothing  in  the  per- 
formance to  entitle  it,  as  a  production  of  Shakspeare, 
to  the  smallest  consideration. 

Thomas,  Lord  Cromwell,  is  a  very  feeble  effort, 
almost  totally  deficient  in  poetry,  and  lamentably 
wanting  as  a  work  of  art.  The  story  is  disjointed, 
rambling,  and  purposeless  ;  and,  but  for  a  something 
of  sedateness  in  the  thought,  occasional  passages 
which  show  good  sense,  and  an  appreciation  of  the 
general  characteristics  of  humanity,  with  a  very  tol- 
erable individualization  of  the  persons  of  the  drama, 
it  would  be  wholly  without  a  redeeming  feature. 
And  yet  there  are  critics  who  find  it  in  possession 


68 


INTRODUCTION. 


of  considerable  merits,  which  escape  our  search. 
Schlegel,  speaking  of  this  play,  of  "  the  Yorkshire 
Tragedy,"  and  of  "  Sir  John  Oldcastle,"  says : 
"  They  are  not  only  unquestionably  Shakspeare's,  but, 
in  my  opinion,  they  deserve  to  be  classed  among  his  best 
and  maturest  works.''  After  this  judgment,  we  may 
well  hesitate  to  speak  our  own.  Schlegel  proceeds 
to  describe  them  as  "  biographical  dramas,  and 
models  in  this  species."  Biographical  they  are,  cer- 
tainly—  singularly  so,  indeed  —  since,  in  this  play  of 
Sir  Thomas,  we  have  almost  all  the  events  of  his  life, 
from  his  earliest  manhood  to  his  death,  crowded  into 
the  scene  with  a  rapidity  of  action  which  defies  all 
reason  and  probability,  and  largely  overleaps  the 
usual  privileges  of  the  dramatic  historian.  But  to 
call  this  play,  or  either  of  the  others  mentioned, 
a  model  of  its  kind,  betrays  a  large  liberality  in 
the  critic  which  we  can  not  conscientiously  emu- 
late Mr.  Knight,  at  the  close  of  his  analysis  of  this 
play,  remarks,  that  "  it  would  be  a  waste  of  time  to 
attempt  to  show  that  Thomas  Lord  Cromwell  could 


not  have  been  written  by  Shafcjpeare."  Certainly  it 
would  be,  if  the  question  were  to  depend  entirely 
upon  the  arbitrary  requisition  of  the  commentators, 
that  Shakspeare's  writings  must  be  all  of  them  of  a 
uniform  excellence,  determined  by  standards  drawn 
from  our  sense  of  his  highest  excellences.  This,  how- 
ever,  is  not  permitted  us.  But  this  point  we  have  con- 
sidered in  another  place.  It  has  been  suggested,  that 
"  W.  S."  might  be  the  initials  of  Wentworth  Smith, 
another  dramatic  writer,  of  whom  little  is  known, 
but  for  whom  this  play  has  never  been  claimed. 

It  remains  to  add,  that  the  subject  of  Sir  Thomas 
Cromwell  is  derived  from  Fuller,  Stow,  Speed,  Hoi- 
ingshead,  and  other  English  chroniclers.  The  events 
are  narrated  at  large,  in  Fox's  Book  of  Martyrs. 
The  particulars  relating  to  Frescobald,  the  benevo- 
lent Italian,  were  first  published  by  Bandello,  the 
novelist,  in  1554 :  "  Francesco  Frescobaldi,  fa  cortessa 
ad  un  straniero,  e  ne  ben  remeritato,  essendo  colui 
diuenuto  contestabile  d'Inghilterra."  His  story  it 
translated  by  Fox. 


THE  HISTORY  OF  THE  LIFE  AND  DEATH  OP 


THOMAS  LORD  CROMWELL. 


English  merchants. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

DUKE  OF  NORFOLK. 

DUKE  OF  SUFFOLK. 

EARL  OF  BEDFORD. 

Cardinal  WOLSEY. 

GARDINER,  Bishop  of  Winchester. 

Sir  THOMAS  MORE. 

Sir  CHRISTOPHER  HALES. 

Sir  RALPH  SADLER. 

Old  CROMWELL,  a  blacksmith  of  Putney. 

THOMAS  CROMWELL,  his  son. 

BANISTER, 

BOWSER, 

NEWTON, 

CROSBT,        j 

BAGOT,  a  money-broker. 

FRESCOBALD,  a  Florentine  merchant. 

The  Governor  of  the  English  factory  at  Antwerp. 

Governor  and  other  officers  of  Bolognia. 

Master  of  an  hotel  in  Bolognia. 

SEELY,  a  publican  of  Hounslow. 

Lieutenant  of  the  Tower. 

Young  CROMWELL,  the  son  of  Thomas. 

HODGE,  WILL,  and  TOM,  old  Cromwell's  servant*. 

Two  Citizens. 

Mrs.  BANISTER. 
JOAN,  wife  to  Seely. 

Two  Witnesses;  a  Sergeant-at-arms ;  a  Herald;  a 
Hangman  ;  a  Post ;  Messengers  ;  Officers ;  Ushers, 
and  Attendants. 

SCENE,  —  Partly  in  LONDON,  and  the  adjoining  Dis- 
tricts ;  partly  in  ANTWERP  and  BOLOGNIA. 


ACT  I. 

SCENE  I.— Putney.    The  entrance  of  a  Smith's  shop. 
Enter  HODGE,  WILL,  and  TOM. 

Hodge.  Come,  masters,  I  think  it  be  past  five  o'clock. 
Is  it  not  time  we  were  at  work  ?  My  old  master,  he'll 
be  stirring  anon. 

Will.  I  can  not  tell  whether  my  old  master  will  be 
stirring  or  no  ;  but  I  am  sure  I  can  hardly  take  my 


afternoon's  nap,  for  my  young  Master  Thomas.  He 
keeps  such  a  coil  in  his  study,  with  the  sun,  and  the 
moon,  and  the  seven  stars,  that  I  do  verily  think  he'll 
read  out  his  wits. 

Hodge.  He  skill  of  the  stars !  There's  Goodman 
Car  of  Fulham  (he  that  carried  us  to  the  strong  ale, 
where  Goody  Trundel  had  her  maid  got  with  child) : 
0,  he  knows  the  stars ;  he'll  tickle  you  Charles's 
Wain  in  nine  degrees.  That  same  man  will  tell  Goody 
Trundel  when  her  ale  shall  miscarry,  only  by  the 
stars. 

Tom.  That's  a  great  virtue,  indeed ;  I  think  Thomas 
be  nobody  in  comparison  to  him. 

Will.  Well,  masters,  come  j  shall  we  to  our  ham- 
mers? 

Hodge.  Ay,  content ;  first  let's  take  our  morning's 
draught,  and  then  to  work,  roundly. 

Tom.  Ay,  agreed.    Go  in,  Hodge.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.—  The  same. 
Enter  young  CROMWELL. 

Crom.  Good  morrow,  morn  ;  I  do  salute  thy  bright- 
ness ! 

The  night  seems  tedious  to  my  troubled  soul, 
Whose  black  obscurity  breeds1  in  my  mind 
A  thousand  sundry  cogitations  : 
And  now  Aurora,  with  a  lively  dye, 
Adds  comfort  to  my  spirit  that  mounts  high  ;* 
Too  high,  indeed,  my  state  being  so  mean. 
My  study,  like  a  mineral  of  gold, 
Makes  my  heart  proud,  wherein  my  hope's  enrolled ; 
My  books  are  all  the  wealth  I  do  possess, 
And  unto  them  I  have  engaged  my  heart. 
Oh,  Learning !  how  divine  thou  seem'st  to  me,— 
Within  whose  arms  is  all  felicity. 

[Smiths  within  hammer. 

Peace  with  your  hammers,  leave  your  knocking  there  ! 
You  do  disturb  my  study  and  my  rest :  — 
Leave  off,  I  say :  —  you  mad  me  with  your  noise. 

Enter  HODGE,  WILL,  and  Ton,  from  within. 

Hodge.  Why,  how  now,  Master  Thomas,  how  now , 
Will  you  not  let  us  work  for  you  ? 
Crom.  You  fret  my  heart,  with  making  of  this 
noise. 

l  Old  copy,  "  bind*."    •  Former  copies  read,  "  on  high." 


70 


LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  THOMAS  LORD  CROMWELL. 


Hodge.  How !  fret  your  heart  ?    Ay.  Thomas,  but 

you'll  fret 
Your  father's  purse  if  you  let  us  from  working. 

Tom.  Ay,  this  'tis  for  to  make  him  a  gentleman : 
Shall  we  leave  work  for  your  musing  ?     That's  well, 

i'faith  j 
But  here  comes  my  old  master,  now 

Enter  old  CROMWELL. 

Old  Crom.  You  idle  knaves,  why  are  you  loit'ring 

now? 

No  hammers  walking,'  and  my  work  lo  do? 
What,  not  a  heat  among  your  work  to-day  ? 

Hodge.  Marry,  sir,  your  son  Thomas  will  not  let  us 
work  at  all. 

Old  Crom.  Why,  knave,  I  say,  have  I  thus  carked 

and  cared, 

And  all  to  keep  thee  like  a  gentleman  ; 
And  dost  thou  let  my  servants  at  their  work, 
That  sweat  for  thee,  knave  —  labor  thus  for  thee  ? 

Crom.  Father,  their  hammers  do  offend  my  study. 

Old  Crom.  Out  of  my  doors,  knave,  if  thou  lik'st 

it  not : 

I  cry  you  mercy ;  are  your  ears  so  fine  ? 
I  tell  thee,  knave,  these  get  when  I  do  sleep  ; 
I  will  not  have  my  anvil  stand  for  thee. 

Crom.  There's  money,  father;  I  will  pay  your 
men.  [  Throws  money  among  them. 

Old  Crom.  Have  I  thus  brought  thee  up  unto  my 

cost, 

In  hope  that  one  day  thou'dst  relieve  my  age, 
And  art  thou  now  so  lavish  of  thy  coin, 
To  scatter  it  among  these  idle  knaves '( 

Crom.  Father,  be  patient,  and  content  yourself: 
The  time  will  come  I  shall  hold  gold  as  trash : 
And  here.  I  speak  with  a  presaging  soul, 
To  build  a  palace  where  this  cottage  stands, 
As  fine  as  is  King  Henry's  house  at  Sheen. 

Old  Crom.  You  build  a  house  !    You  knave,  you'll 

be  a  beggar ! 

Now,  afore  God,  all  is  but  cast  away, 
That  is  bestowed  upon  this  thriftless  lad  ! 
Well,  had  I  bound  him  to  some  honest  trade, 
This  had  not  been  ;  but  'twas  his  mother's  doing, 
To  send  him  to  the  university. 

How  ?  Build  a  house  where  now  this  cottage  stands, 
As  fair  as  that  at  Sheen?  —  they  shall  not  hear  me  ! 

[Aside. 

A  good  boy,  Tom ;  I  con  thee  ;  —  thank  thee,  Tom, 
Well  said,  Tom  ;  Gramercy  to  ye,  Tom  ! 
In  to  your  work,  knaves  ;  hence  [thou]  saucy  boy. 
[Exeunt  all  but  young  CROMWELL. 

Crom.  Why  should  my  birth  keep  down  my  mount- 
ing spirit  ? 

Are  not  all  creatures  subject  unto  time ; 
To  time  who  doth  abuse  the  cheated  world, 
And  fills  it  full  of  hodge-podge  bastardy  ? 
There's  legions  now  of  beggars  on  the  earth, 
That  their  original  did  spring  from  kings  ; 
And  many  monarchs  now,  whose  fathers  were 
The  riff-raff  of  their  age  ;  for  time  and  fortune 
Wear  out  a  noble  train  to  beggary ; 
And  from  the  dunghill,  minions*  do  advance 
To  state  and  mark  in  this  admiring  world. 
This  is  but  course,  which,  in  the  name  of  fate, 


1  Qucre:  Working! 


*  Quere:  Million*! 


Is  seen  as  often  as  it  whirls  about. 
The  river  Thames,  that  by  our  door  doth  pass, 
His  first  beginning  is  but  small  and  shallow  ; 
Yet,  keeping  on  his  course,  grows  to  a  sea. 
And  likewise  Wolsey,  the  wonder  of  our  age, 
His  birth  as  mean  as  mine,  a  butcher's  son ; 
Now,  who,  within  this  land  a  greater  man  ? 
Then,  Cromwell,  cheer  thee  up,  and  tell  thy  soul, 
That  thou  may'st  live  to  flourish  and  control. 

Enter  old  CROMWELL. 

Old  Crom.  Tom  Cromwell ;  what,  Tom,  I  say ! 

Crom.  Do  you  call,  sir? 

Old  Crom.  Here  is  Master  Bowser  come  to  know  if 
you  have  despatched  his  petition  for  the  lords  of  the 
council,  or  no. 

Crom.  Father,  I  have  ;  please  you  to  call  him  in. 

Old  Crom.  That's  well  said,  Tom ;  a  good  lad, 
Tom. 

Enter  Master  BOWSEK. 

Bow.  Now,  Master  Cromwell,  have  you  despatched 
this  petition  ? 

Crom.  I  have,  sir  ;  here  it  is  ;  please  you,  peruse  it. 

Bow.  It  shall  not  need  ;  we'll  read't  as  we  go  by 

water. 

And,  Master  Cromwell,  I  have  made  a  motion 
May  do  you  good,  an  if  you  like  of  it. 
Our  secretary  at  Antwerp,  sir,  is  dead, 
And  [now]  the  merchants  there  have  sent  to  me, 
For  lo  provide  a  man  fit  for  the  place  : 
Now,  I  do  know  none  fitter  than  yourself, 
If  it  stand  with  your  liking,  Master  Cromwell. 

Crom.  With  all  my  heart,  sir;  and  I  much  am 

bound, 
In  love  and  duty  for  your  kindness  shown. 

Old  Crom.  Body  o'me,  Tom,  make  haste,  lest  some- 
body get  between  thee  and  honor,  Tom.3  I  thank 
you,  good  Master  Bowser,  I  thank  you  for  my  boy ; 
I  thank  you  always ;  I  thank  you  most  heartily,  sir : 
Ho,  a  cup  of  beer  here  for  Mailer  Bowser. 

Bow.  It  shall  not  need,  sir :  Master  Cromwell,  will 
you  go  ? 

Crom.  I  will  attend  you,  sir. 

Old  Crom.  Farewell,  Tom  ;  God  bless  thee,  Tom  ; 
God  speed  thee,  good  Tom.  [Exeunt 

SCENE  III  — London.  A  Strert  before  FRESCOBALD'S 
House. 

Enter  BAGOT. 

Bag.  I  hope  this  day  is  fatal  unto  some, 
And  by  their  loss  must  Bagot  seek  to  gain. 
This  is  the  lodge  of  Master  Frescobald, 
A  liberal  merchant  and  a  Florentine, 
To  whom  Banister  owes  a  thousand  pound  ; 
A  merchant  bankrupt,  whose  father  was  my  mas- 
ter. 

What  do  I  care  for  pity  or  regard  ? 
He  once  was  wealthy,  but  he  now  is  fallen, 
And  I  this  morning  have  him  got  arrested 
At  suit  of  this  same  Master  Frescobald  ; 
And,  by  this  means,  shall  I  be  sure  of  coin, 
For  doing  this  same  good  to  him  unknown  : 
And,  in  good  time,  see  where  the  merchant  come». 

3  Old  copies,  "  between  thee  and  homt." 


ACT  II.  — SCENE  I. 


71 


Enter  FRESCOEALD. 

Good  morrow  to  kind  Master  Frescobald. 

Fres.   Good    morrow    to  yourself,   good  Master 

Bagot ; 

And  what's  the  news,  you  are  so  early  stirring  T 
It  is  for  gain  ;  I  make  no  doubt  of  that. 

Bag.  'Tis  for  the  love,  sir,  that  I  bear  to  you. 
When  did  you  see  your  debtor,  Banister  ? 

Fres.  I  promise  you,  I  have  not  seen  the  man 
This  two  months  day  ;  his  poverty  is  such, 
As  I  do  think  he  shames  to  see  his  friends. 

Bag.  Why  then  assure  yourself  to  see  him  straight, 
For  at  your  suit  I  have  arrested  him, 
A  nd  here  they  will  be  with  him  presently. 

Fres.  Arrest  him  at  my  suit  ?     You  were  to  blame, 
I  know  the  man's  misfortunes  to  be  such, 
As  he's  not  able  for  to  pay  the  debt ; 
And  were  it  known  to  some,  he  were  undone. 

Bag.  This  is  your  pitiful  heart  to  think  it  so  ; 
But  you  are  much  deceived  in  Banister : 
Why,  such  as  he  will  break  for  fashion  sake, 
And  unto  those  they  owe  a  thousand  pound, 
Pay  scarce  a  hundred.    0,  sir,  beware  of  him, 
The  man  is  lewdly  given  to  dice  and  drabs ; 
Spends  all  he  hath  in  harlot's  companies ; 
It  is  no  mercy  for  to  pity  him : 
I  speak  the  truth  of  him,  for  nothing  else, 
But  for  the  kindness  that  I  bear  to  you. 

Fres.  If  it  be  so,  he  hath  deceived  me  much, 
And  to  deal  strictly  with  such  a  one  as  he, 
Better  severe  than  too  much  lenity : 
But  here  is  Master  Banister  himself, 
And  with  him,  as  I  take  it,  [are]  the  officers. 

Enter  BANISTER,  hi3  Wife,  and  two  Officers. 

Ban.  0,  Master  Frescobald,  you  have  undone  me : 
My  state  was  well  nigh  overthrown  before, 
Now,  altogether  downcast  by  your  means. 

Mrs.  Ban.  O,  Master  Frescobald,  pity  my  hus- 
band's case  ; 

He  is  a  man  hath  lived  as  well  as  any, 
Till  envious  fortune  and  the  ravenous  sea 
Did  rob,  disrobe,  and  spoil  us  of  our  own. 

F res.  Mistress  Banister,  I  envy  not  your  husband, 
Nor  willingly  would  I  have  used  him  thus : 
But  that  I  hear  he  is  so  lewdly  given, 
Haunts  wicked  company,  and  hath  enough 
To  pay  his  debts,  yet  will  not  own1  thereof. 

Ban.  This  is  that  damned  broker,  that  same  Bagot, 
Whom  I  have  often  from  my  trencher  fed  : 
Ungrateful  villain  for  to  use  me  thus. 

Bag.  What  I  have  said  to  him  is  naught  but  truth. 

Mrs.  Ban.  What  thou  hast  said  springs  from  an  en- 
vious heart  ! 

0  !  cannibal,2  that  doth  eat  men  alive  ! 
But  here,  upon  my  knee,  believe  me,  sir  ; 
And  what  I  speak,  so  help  me  God,  is  true  ! 
We  scarce  have  meat  to  feed  our  little  babes  : 
Most  of  our  plate  is  in  that  broker's  hand, 
Which,  had  we  money  to  defray  our  debts, 
0  think,  we  would  not  bide  that  penury  ! 
Be  merciful,  kind  Master  Frescobald; 
My  husband,  children,  and  myself  will  eat 
Biit  one  meal  a  day  ;  the  other,  will  we  keep 

1  Former  editions  read,  "  be  known  thereof* 
»  "  A  cannibal."  in  other  copies. 


And  sell ;  in  part  to  pay  the  debt  we  owe  you. 
If  ever  tears  did  pierce  a  tender  mind, 
Be  pitiful ;  —  let  me  some  favor  rind. 

Fres.  Go  to  ;  I  see  thou  art  an  envious  man.  — 
Good  Mistress  Banister,  kneel  not  to  me  : 
I  pray  rise  up ;  you  shall  have  your  desire. 
Hold,  officers  ;  begone  ;  there's  for  your  pains. 

[Exit  Officers. 
You  know  you  owe  to  me  a  thousand  pound ; 

[To  BANISTER. 

Here,  take  my  hand ;  if  e'er  God  make  you  able, 
And  place  you  in  your  former  state  again, 
Pay  me  :  but,  if  still  [dark]  your  fortune  frown, 
Upon  my  faith,  I'll  never  ask  a  crown. 
I  never  yet  did  wrong  to  men  in  thrall, 
For  God  doth  know  what  to  myself  may  fall. 

Ban.  This  unexpected  favor,  undeserved, 
Doth  make  my  heart  bleed  inwardly  with  joy : 
Ne'er  may  aught  prosper  with  me  as3  my  own, 
If  I  forget  this  kindness  you  have  shown. 

Mrs.  Ban.  My  children,  in  their  prayers,  both  night 

and  day, 
For  your  good  fortune  and  success  shall  pray. 

Fres.  I  thank  you  both  ;  I  pray  go  dine  with  me  ; 
Within  these  three  days,  if  God  give  me  leave, 
I  will  to  Florence,  to  my  native  home. 
Hold,  Bagot,  there's  a  portague4  to  drink, 
Although  you  ill  deserved  it  by  your  merit ; 
Give  not  such  cruel  scope  unto  your  heart  j 
Be  sure,  the  ill  you  do  will  be  requited  : 
Remember  what  I  say,  Bagot ;  farewell. 
Come,  Master  Banister,  you  shall  with  me, 
My  fare's  but  simple,  but  welcome  heartily. 

[Exeunt  all  but  BAOOT 

Bag.  A  plague  go  with  you !  would  you  had  eat 

your  last ! 

Is  this  the  thanks  T  have  for  all  my  pains  ? 
Confusion  light  upon  you  all  for  me  ! 
Where  he  had  wont  to  give  a  score  of  crowns,4 
Doth  he  now  foist  me  with  a  portague  ? 
Well,  I  will  be  revenged  upon  this  Banister. 
I'll  to  his  creditors ;  buy  the  debts  he  owes, 
As  seeming  that  I  do  it  for  good  will ; 
I'm  sure  to  have  them  at  an  easy  rate  ; 
And  when  'tis  done,  in  Christendom  he  stays  not, 
But  I  will  make  his  heart  to  ache  witn  «-orrow;  — 
And  if  that  Banister  become  my  debtor, 
By  heaven  and  earth,  I'll  make  his  plague  the  greater. 

{Exit  BAGOT. 


ACT   II. 

Enter  Chorus. 

Cho.  Now,  gentlemen,  imagine  that  young  Crom- 
well, 

In  Antwerp's  lieger*  for  the  English  merchants ; 
And  Banister,  to  shun  this  Bagot's  hate, 
Hearing  that  he  hath  got  some  of  his  debts, 
Is  fled  to  Antwerp,  with  his  wife  and  children ; 
Which,  Bagot  hearing,  is  gone  after  them : 

3  Old  editions  read  "  i«." 

<  The  portague  (Fr.  portugaite)  was  a  gold  coin  of  Portu- 
gal, worth  about  £4  10*.  sterling.  "  Score  of  pounds"  may 
be  intended ;  for,  as  a  correspondent  remarks,  at  JE4  10*.  a 
portagut  can  not  be  much  less  than  "  a  score  of  crown*.' 

6  Lieger— ambassador. 


72 


LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  THOMAS  LORD  CROMWELL. 


And  thither  sends  his  bills  of  debt  before, 
To  be  revenged  on  wretched  Banister. 
What  doth  fall  out,  with  patience  sit  and  see, 
A  just  requital  of  false  treachery. 

SCENE  I. — Antwerp.  CROMWELL  in  his  study,  dis- 
covered at  a  table,  with  bags  of  money  before  him,  and 
boo  fa  of  account. 

Crom.  Thus  far  my  reckoning  doth  go  straight  and 

even. 

But,  Cromwell,  this  same  plodding  fits  not  thee ; 
Thy  mind  is  altogether  set  on  travel, 
And  not  to  live  thus  cloistered,  like  a  nun. 
It  is  not  this  same  trash,  that  I  regard ; 
Experience  is  the  jewel  of  my  heart. 

Enter  a  Post  (courier). 

Post .  I  pray,  sir,  are  you  ready  to  despatch  me  ? 

Crom.  Yes  ;  here's  those  sums  of  money  you  must 

carry. 
You  go  as  far  as  Frankfort,  do  you  not  ? 

Post.  I  do,  sir. 

Crom.  Well,  pr'ythee,  then,  make  all  the  haste 

thou  canst, 

For  there  be  certain  English  gentlemen 
Are  bound  for  Venice,  and  may  haply  want, 
An  if  that  you  should  linger  by  the  way : 
Beit  in  the  hope  that  you  will  make  good  speed, 
There  are  two  angels  to  buy  spurs  and  wands.1 

Post.  I  thank  you,  sir ;  this  will  add  wings  indeed. 

Crom.  Gold  is  of  power  to  make  an  eagle's  speed. 

Enter  Mistress  BANISTER. 

What  gentlewoman  is  this,  that  grieves  so  much? 
It  seems  she  doth  address  herself  to  me. 

Mrs.  Ban.  God  save  you,  sir ;  is  your  name  Master 
Cromwell  ? 

Crom.  My  name  is  Thomas  Cromwell,  gentlewo- 
man. 

Mr*.  Ban.  Know  you  one  Bagot,  sir,  that's  come 
to  Antwerp? 

Crom.  No,  trust  me,  I  ne'er  saw  the  man ;  but  here 
Are  bills  of  deb'  i  have  received  against 
One  Banister  a  merchant  fallen  into  decay. 

Mrs.  Ban.  Into  decay,  indeed,  'long  of  that  wretch ! 
I  am  the  wife  to  woful  Banister, 
And,  by  that  bloody  villain  am  pursued, 
From  London,  here  to  Antwerp,  where  my  husband 
Lies  in  the  governor's  hands  ;  the  God  of  Heaven 
He  only  knows  how  he  will  deal  with  him  ! 
Now,  sir,  your  heart  is  framed  of  milder  temper, 
Be  merciful  to  a  distressed  soul, 
And  God,  no  doubt,  will  trebly  bless  your  gain. 

Crom.  Good  Mistress  Banister,  what  I  can,  I  will, 
In  anything  that  lies  within  my  power. 

Mrs.  Ban.  O,  speak  to  Bagot,  that  same  wicked 

wretch ; 
An  angel's  voice  may  move  a  damned  devil. 

Crom.  Why,  is  he  come  to  Antwerp,  as  you  hear  ? 

Mrs.  Ban.  I  heard  he  landed  some  two  hours  since. 

Crom.  Well,  Mistress  Banister,  assure  yourself, 
I  will  to  Bagot  speak  in  your  behalf, 
And  win  him  to  all  the  pity  that  I  can : 


Meantime,  to  comfort  you,  in  your  distress, 

Receive  these  angels  to  relieve  your  need, 

And,  be  assured,  lhat  what  I  can  effect, 

To  do  you  good,  no  way  will  I  neglect. 
Mrs.  Ban.  That  mighty  God  that  knows  each  mor- 
tal's heart, 

Keep  you  from  trouble,  sorrow,  grief,  and  smart. 

[Exit  Mistress  BANISTER. 

'    Crom.  Thanks,  courteous  woman,  for  thy  hearty 
prayer ! 

It  grieves  my  soul  to  see  her  misery  ; 

But  we  that  live  under  the  work  of  fate, 

May  hope  the  best,  yet  know  not  to  what  state 

Our  stars  and  destinies  have  us  assigned ; 

Fickle  is  fortune,  and  her  face  is  blind.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— A  Street  in  Antwerp. 
Enter  BAGOT. 

Bag.  So,  all  goes  well ;  it  is  as  I  would  have  it ! 
Banister,  he  is  with  the  governor, 
And  shortly  shall  have  gyves  upon  his  heels. 
It  glads  my  heart  to  think  upon  the  slave  ; 
I  hope  to  have  his  body  rot  in  prison, 
And  after  hear  his  wife  to  hang  herself, 
And  all  his  children  die  for  want  of  food. 
The  jewels  I  have  brought  with  me  to  Antwerp, 
Are  reckoned  to  be  worth  five  thousand  pound, 
Which  scarcely  stood  me  in  three  hundred  pound. 
I  bought  them  at  an  easy  kind  of  rate  ;  — 
I  care  not  much  which  way  they  came  by  them, 
That  sold  them  me ;  it  comes  not  near  my  heart ; 
And,  lest  they  should  be  stolen  —  as  sure  they  are  — 
I  thought  it  meet  to  sell  them  here  in  Antwerp ; 
And  so  have  left  them  in  the  governor's  hand, 
Who  offers  me  within  two  hundred  pound 
Of  all  my  price  j  — but  now,  no  more  of  that. — 
I  must  go  see  an  if  my  bills  be  safe, 
The  which  I  sent  before  to  Master  Cromwell, 
That,  if  the  wind  should  keep  me  on  the  sea, 
He  might  arrest  him  here  before  I  came  : 
And,  in  good  time,  see  where  he  is : 

Enter  CROMWELL. 

God  save  you,  sir. 

Crom.  And  you. — Pray,  pardon  me,  I  know  you 
not. 

Bag.  It  may  be  so,  sir ;  but  my  name  is  Bagot ; 
The  man  that  sent  to  you  the  bills  of  debt. 

Crom.  Oh,  you're  the  man  that  pursues  Banister  ? 
Here  are  the  bills  of  debt  you  sent  to  me  ; 
As  for  the  man,  you  best  know  where  he  is. 
It  is  reported  you've  a  flinty  heart, 
A  mind  that  will  not  stoop  to  any  pity ; 
An  eye  that  knows  not  how  to  shed  a  tear, 
A  hand  that's  always  open  for  reward. 
But,  Master  Bagot,  would  you  be  ruled  by  me, 
You  should  turn  all  these  to  the  contrary ; 
Your  heart  should  still  have  feeling  of  remorse, 
Your  mind,  according  to  your  state,  be  liberal 
To  those  that  stand  in  need  and  in  distress ; 
Your  hand  to  help  them  that  do  sink  in  want, 
Rather  than  with  your  poise  to  hold  them  down  ;  — 
For  every  ill  turn,  show  yourself  more  kind :  — 
Thus  should  I ;  pardon  me,  I  speak  my  mind. 

Bag.  Ay,  sir,  you  speak  to  hear  what  I  would  say ; 


ACT  II.— SCENE  III. 


73 


But  you  must  live,  I  know,  as  well  as  I. 

I  know  this  place  to  be  extortionate, 

And  'tis  not  for  a  man  to  keep  safe  here, 

But  he  must  lie ;  cog  with  his  dearest  friend, 

And,as  for  pity,  scorn  it ;  hate  all  conscience : 

But  yet  I  do  commend  your  wit  in  this, 

To  make  a  show  of  what  I  hope  you  are  not ;  — 

But  1  commend  you,  and  it  is  well  done  : 

This  is  the  only  way  to  bring  you  gain. 

Crom.  Gain  !  I  had  rather  chain  me  to  an  oar, 
And,  like  a  slave,  there  toil  out  all  my  life, 
Before  I'd  live  so  base  a  slave  as  thou. 
Ay,  like  a  hypocrite,  to  make  a  show 
Of  seeming  virtue,  and  a  devil  within  ! 
No,  Bagot,  if  thy  conscience  were  as  clear, 
Ne'er  had  poor  Banister  been  troubled  here. 

Bag.  Nay,  Master  Cromwell,  be  not  angry,  sir  ; 
I  know  full  well  that  you  are  no  such  man, 
But  if  your  conscience  were  as  white  as  snow, 
It  will  be  thought  that  you  are  otherwise. 

Crom.  Will  it  be  thought  [that]  I  am  otherwise  ? 
Let  them  that  think  so,  know  they  are  deceived  ; 
Shall  Cromwell  live  to  have  his  faith  misconstr'ed  ? 
Antwerp,  for  all  the  wealth  within  thy  town, 
I  will  not  stay  here  full  two  hours  longer. 
As  good  luck  serves,  my  accounts  are  all  made  even, 
Therefore,  I'll  straight  unto  the  treasurer. 
Bagot,  I  know  you'll  to  the  governor  : 
Commend  me  to  him ;  say  I'm  bound  to  travel, 
To  see  the  fruitful  parts  of  Italy ; 
And  if  you  ever  bore  a  Christian  mind, 
Let  Banister  some  favor  of  you  find. 

Bag.  For  your  sake,  sir,  I'll  help  him  all  I  can  — 
To  starve  his  heart  out  e'er  he  gets  a  groat  —  [aside.] 
So  Master  Cromwell,  do  I  take  my  leave, 
For  I  must  straight  unto  the  governor. 

Crom.  Farewell,  sir ;  pray  remember  what  I've 
said.  [Exit  BAGOT. 

No,  Cromwell,  no  ;  thy  heart  was  ne'er  so  base, 
To  live  by  falsehood  or  by  brokery. 
But  it  falls  out  well ;  —  I  little  it  repent  ; 
Hereafter,  time  in  travel  shall  be  spent. 

Enter  HODGE. 

Hodge.  Your  son  Thomas,  quoth  you?  I  have  been 
Thomas'd.  1  had  thought  it  had  been  no  such  matter 
to  ha'  gone  by  water ;  for  at  Putney  I'll  go  you  to  Par- 
ish Garden  for  two  pence  ;  sit  as  still  as  may  be,  with- 
out any  wagging  or  jolting  in  my  guts,  in  a  little  boat, 
too :  here,  we  were  scarce  some  four  mile  in  the 
great  green  water,  but  I,  thinking  to  go  to  my  after- 
noon's nuncheon,1  as  was  my  manner  at  home,  felt  a 
kind  of  rising  in  my  guts.  At  last,  one  o'  the  sailors 
spying  of  me, — "  B*  o'good  cheer,"  says  he  ;  "  set 
down  thy  victual,  and  up  with  it ;  thou  hast  nothing 
but  an  eel  in  thy  belly."  —  Well,  to't  I  went,  and  to 
my  victuals  went  the  sailors  ;  and,  thinking  me  to  be 
a  man  of  better  experience  than  any  in  the  ship,  they 
asked  me  what  wood  the  ship  was  made  of?  They  all 
swore  I  told  them  as  right  as  if  I  had  been  acquainted 
with  the  carpenter  that  made  it.  At  last,  we  grew 
near  land,  I  grew  villanous  hungry,  and  went  to  my 
bag.  The  devil  a  bit  there  was;  the  sailors  had 
tickled  me  ;  yet  I  can  not  blame  them  ;  it  was  a  part 
of  kindness,  for  I  in  kindness  told  them  what  wood 

I  Luncheon. 


the  ship  was  made  of,  and  they  in  kindness  eat  up 
my  victuals ;  as,  indeed,  one  good  turn  asketh  another. 
Well,  would  I  could  find  my  Master  Thomas,  in  this 
Dutch  town  !  —  he  might  put  some  English  beer  into 
my  belly. 

Crom,  What,  Hodge,  my  father's  man !  by  my 

hand,  welcome : 
How  doth  my  father  ?    What's  the  news  at  home  ? 

Hodge.  Master  Thomas !  O  God,  Master  Thomas  ! 
your  hand  —  glove  and  all !  this  is  to  give  you  to  un- 
derstand that  your  father  is  in  health ;  and  Alice 
Downing  here  hath  sent  you  a  nutmeg ;  and  Bess 
Make-water  a  race  of  ginger  ;  my  fellows  Will  and 
Tom,  have,  between  them,  sent  you  a  dozen  of  points, 
and  Goodman  Toll,  of  the  Goat,  a  pair  of  mittens  ; 
myself  came  in  person,  and  this  is  all  the  news. 

Crom.  Gramercy,  Hodge,  and  thou  art  welcome  to 
But  in  as  ill  a  time  thou  comest  as  may  be  ;         [me, 
For  I  am  travelling  into  Italy  : — 
What  say'st  thou,  Hodge,  wilt  bear  me  company? 

Hodge.  Will  I  bear  thee  company,  Tom  ?  What 
tell'st  me  of  Italy  ?  Were  it  to  the  farthest  part  of 
Flanders,  I  would  go  with  thee,  Tom.  I  am  thine 
all,  in  weal  and  wo,  thine  own  to  command.  What, 
Tom,  I  have  passed  the  rigorous  waves  of  Neptune's 
blasts.  I  tell  you,  Thomas,  I  have  been  in  danger  of 
the  floods ;  and  when  I  have  seen  Boreas  begin  to 
play  the  ruffian  with  us,  then  would  I  down  on  my 
knees,  and  call  upon  Vulcan. 

Crom.  And  why  upon  him? 

Hodge.  Because,  as  this  same  fellow  Neptune,  is 
god  of  the  seas,  so  Vulcan  is  lord  over  the  smiths, 
and  therefore,  I,  being  a  smith,  thought  his  godhead 
would  have  some  care  yet  of  me. 

Crom.  A  good  conceit ;  but  tell  me,  hast  thoa 
dined  yet  ? 

Hodge.  Thomas,  to  speak  the  truth,  not  a  bit  yet  I. 

Crom.  Come,  go  with  me,  thou  shall  have  cheer 

good  store  ; 
And  farewell,  Antwerp,  if  I  come  no  more. 

Hodge.  I  follow  thee,  sweet  Tom  j  I  follow  thee. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Another  Street  in  the  same. 

Enter  the  Governor  of  the  English  Factory ;  BAGOT, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  BANISTER,  and  two  Officers. 

Gov.    Is  Cromwell  gone,  then,  say  you,  Master 

Bagot  ? 
What  the  dislike,  I  pray  ?    What  was  the  cause  ? 

Bag.  To  tell  you  true,  a  wild  brain  of  his  own  ; 
Such  youth  as  he  can't  see  when  they  are  well : 
He  is  all  bent  to  travel  —  that's  his  reason  — 
And  doth  not  love  to  eat  his  bread  at  home. 

GOB.  Well,  good  fortune  with  him  if  the  man  b« 

gone. 

We  hardly  shall  find  such  a  man  as  he, 
To  fit  our  turns  ;  his  dealings  were  so  honest. 
But  now,  sir,  for  your  jewels  that  I  have, — 
What  do  you  say  ?  what,  will  you  take  my  price  ? 

Bag.  O,  sir,  you  offer  too  much  under  foot. 

Gov.  'Tis  but  two  hundred  pound  between  us,  man, 
What's  that,  in  payment  of  five  thousand  pound? 

Bag.  Two  hundred  pound,  by'rlady,  sir,  'tis  great  j 
Before  I  got  so  much  it  made  me  sweat. 

Got*.  Well,  Master  Bagot,  I'll  proffer  you  fairly. 
You  see  this  merchant,  Master  Banister, 


74 


LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  THOMAS  LORD  CROMWELL. 


Is  going  now  to  prison  at  your  suit : 

His  substance  all  is  gone ;  what  would  yon  hare  ? 

Yet,  in  regard  I  knew  the  man  in1  wealth, 

Never  dishonest  dealing,  but  such  mishaps 

Hath  fallen  on  him,  may  light  on  me  or  you :  — 

There  is  two  hundred  pound  between  us  two ; 

We  will  divide  the  same  ;  I'll  give  you  one, 

On  that  condition  you  will  set  him  free. 

His  state  is  nothing ;  that  you  see  yourself; 

And  where  naught  is,  the  king  must  lose  his  right. 

Bag.  Sir,  you  speak  out  of  your  love  ;  [but  know] 
'Tis  foolish  love,  sir,  sure  to  pity  him. 
Therefore  content  yourself,  this  is  my  mind ; 
To  do  him  good,  I  will  not  bate  a  penny. 

Ban.  This  is  my  comfort,  though  thou  dost  no 

good, 
A  mighty  ebb  follows  a  mighty  flood. 

Mrs.  Ban.  0,  thou  base  wretch,  whom  we  have 

fostered, 

Even  as  a  serpent,  for  to  poison  us ! 
If  God  did  ever  right  a  woman's  wrong, 
To  that  same  God  I  bend  and  bow  my  heart, 
To  let  his  heavy  wrath  fall  on  thy  head, 
By  whom  my  hopes  and  joys  are  butchered. 

Bag.  Alas,  fond  woman,  I  pr'ythee  pray  thy  worst, 
The  fox  fares  better  still,  when  he  is  cursed. 

Enter  BOWSEE. 

Goe.  Master  Bowser .'  you're  welcome,  sir,  from 

England. 
What's  the  best  news  ?  and  how  do  all  our  friends  ? 

Bow.  They  are  all  well,  and  do  commend  them  to 

you: 

There's  letters  from  your  brother  and  your  son : 
So,  fare  you  well,  sir,  I  must  take  my  leave, 
My  haste  and  business  do  require  it  so. 

Got.  Before  you  dine,  sir  ?    What,  go  you  out  of 
town? 

Bow.  I'faith,  unless  I  hear  some  news  in  town, 
I  must  away ;  there  is  no  remedy. 

Gov.  Master  Bowser,  what  is  your  business  ?  —  may 
I  know  it  ? 

Bow.  You  may,  sir,  and  so  shall  all  the  city. 
The  king  of  late  hath  had  his  treasury  robbed, 
And  of  the  choicest  jewels  that  he  had  ; 
The  value  of  them  was  seven  thousand  pound, 
The  fellow  that  did  steal  these  jewels  is  hanged, 
And  did  confess  that,  for  three  hundred  pound, 
He  sold  them  to  one  Bagot,  dwelling  in  London : 
Now  Bagot's  fled,  and,  as  we  hear,  to  Antwerp  j 
And  hither  am  I  come  to  seek  him  out ; 
And  they  that  first  can  tell  me  of  his  news, 
Shall  have  a  hundred  pound  for  their  reward. 

Ban.  How  just  is  God  to  right  the  innocent ! 

Got?.  Master  Bowser,  you  come  in  happy  time, 
Here  is  the  villain  Bagot  that  you  seek, 
And  all  those  jewels  have  I  in  my  hands. — 
Here,  officers,  look  to  him,  hold  him  fast. 

Bagot.  The  devil  owed  me  a  shame,  and  now  hath 
paid  it. 

Bow.  Is  this  that  Bagot  ?  Fellows,  bear  him  hence, 
We  will  not  now  stand  here  for  his  reply ; 
Lade  him  with  irons,  we  will  have  him  tried 
In  England,  where  his  villanies  are  known. 
Bag.  Mischief,  confusion,  light  upon  you  all ! 

1  The  old  copies  read,  "  of  wealth." 


0,  hang  me,  drown  me,  let  me  kill  myself; 
Let  go  my  arms,  let  me  run  quick  to  hell. 

Bow,  Away ;  bear  him  away ;  stop  the  slave's 
mouth.          [Exeunt  Officers,  with  BAGOT. 

Mrs.  Ban.  Thy  works  are  infinite,   great  God  of 
Heaven ! 

Gov.  I  heard  this  Bagot  was  a  wealthy  fellow. 

Bow.  He  was  indeed ;  for  when  his  goods  were 

seized, 

Of  jewels,  coin,  and  plate,  within  his  house, 
Was  found  the  value  of  five  thousand  pound, 
His  furniture  worth  fully  half  so  much ; 
Which,  being  all  distrained  for  the  king, 
He  frankly  gave  it  to  the  Antwerp  merchants ; 
And  they  again,  out  of  their  bounteous  mind, 
Have,  to  a  brother  of  their  company, 
A  man  decayed  by  fortune  of  the  seas, 
Given  Bagot's  wealth,  to  set  him  up  again, 
And  keep  it  for  him  ;  his  name's  Banister. 

GOT.  Good  Master  Bowser,  with  this  happy  news, 
You  have  revived  two  from  the  gates  of  death, 
This  is  that  Banister,  and  this  his  wife. 

Bow.  Sir,  I  am  glad  my  fortune  is  so  good, 
To  bring  such  tidings  as  may  comfort  you. 

Ban.  You  have  given  life  unto  a  man  deemed  dead ; 
For  by  these  news,  my  life  is  newly  bred. 

Mrs.  Ban.  Thanks  to  my  G  od,  neit  to  my  sovereign 

king; 
And  last  to  you  that  these  good  news  do  bring. 

Gov.  The  hundred  pound  I  must  receive,  as  due 
For  finding  Bagot,  I  freely  give  to  you. 

Bow.  And,  Master  Banister,  if  so  you  please, 
I'll  bear  you  company,  when  you  cross  the  seas. 

Ban.  If  it  please  you,  sir,  my  company  is  bnt 

mean: 
Stands  with  your  liking,*  I  will  wait  on  you. 

Gov.  I  am  glad  that  all  things  do  accord  so  well : 
Come,  Master  Bowser,  let  us  in  to  dinner ; 
And  Mistress  Banister,  be  merry,  woman. 
Come,  after  sorrow  now  let's  cheer  your  spirit, 
Knaves  have  their  due,  and  you  but  what  you  merit. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.— The  principal  Bridge  at  Florence. 

Enter  CROMWELL  and  HODGE  in  their  shirts,  and  u-ith- 
out  hats. 

Hodge.  Call  you  this  seeing  of  fashions?  Marry 
would  I  had  stayed  at  Putney  still.  Oh!  Master 
Thomas,  we  are  spoiled,  we  are  gone. 

Crom.  Content  thee,  man  ;  this  is  but  fortune. 

Hodge.  Fortune  !  a  plague  of  this  fortune  ;  it  makes 
me  go  wet-shod ;  the  rogues  would  not  leave  me  a 
shoe  to  my  feet :  for  my  hose,  they  scorned  them 
with  their  heels  ;  but  for  my  doublet  and  hat,  O. 
Lord  —  they  embraced  me  and  unlaced  me,  and  took 
away  my  clothes,  and  so  disgraced  me  ! 

Crom.  Well,  Hodge,  what  remedy  ? 
What  shift  shall  we  make  now  ? 

Hodge.  Nay,  I  know  not.  For  begging  I  am  naught, 

»  Stands  with  your  liking.  Elliptical  for  '  If  it  stand*," 
ice. — Percy. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II. 


75 


for  stealing  worse :  by  my  troth  I  must  even  fall  to 
my  old  trade ;  to  the  hammer  and  the  horse-heels 
again ;  but  now,  the  worst  is,  I  am  not  acquainted 
with  the  humor  of  the  horses  in  this  country ;  whether 
they  are  not  coltish  ;  given  much  to  kicking  or  no  : 
for  when  I  have  one  leg  in  my  hand,  if  he  should  up 
and  lay  t'other  on  my  chaps,  I  were  gone ;  there 
lay  I,  there  lay  Hodge. 

Crom.  Hodge,  I  believe  thou  must  work  for  us 
both. 

Hodge.  O,  Master  Thomas,  have  not  I  told  you  of 
this?  Have  not  I,  many  a  time  and  often,  said, "  Tom, 
or  Master  Thomas,  learn  to  make  a  horse-shoe  ;  it 
will  be  your  own  another  day :"  this  was  not  regarded. 
Hark  you,  Thomas,  what  do  you  call  the  fellows  that 
robbed  us  ? 

Crom.  The  banditti. 

Hodge.  The  banditti,  do  you  call  them  ?  I  know 
not  what  they  are  called  here,  but  1  am  sure  we  will 
call  them  plain  thieves  in  England.  O,  Tom,  that  we 
were  now  at  Putney,  at  the  ale  there. 

Crom.  Content  thee,  man  ;  —  here  set  up  these  two 

bills, 

And  let  us  keep  our  standing  on  the  bridge : 
The  fashion  of  this  country  still  is  such, 
If  any  stranger  be  oppressed  with  want, 
To  write  the  manner  of  his  misery ; 
And  such  as  are  disposed  to  succor  him, 
Will  do  it.    What,  Hodge,  hast  thou  set  them  up  ? 

Hodge.  Ay,  they  are  up ;  God  send  some  to  read 
them,  and  not  only  to  read  them,  but  also  to  look  on 
ns ;  and  not  altogether  look  on  us,  but  relieve  us. 
Oh  !  cold,  cold,  cold  ! 

[CBOMWELL  stands  at  one  end  of  the  bridge, 
and  HODGE  at  the  other. 

Enter  FRESCOEALD. 

Frescobald.  [reads].  What's  here? 
Two  Englishmen  robbed  by  the  banditti  ? 
One  of  them  seems  to  be  a  gentleman, 
'Tis  pity  that  his  fortune  was  so  hard, 
To  fall  into  the  desperate  hands  of  thieves  ! — 
I'll  question  him  of  what  estate  he  is. 
God  save  you,  sir,  are  you  an  Englishman? 

Crom.  I  am,  sir,  a  distressed  Englishman. 

Fres,  And  what  are  you,  my  friend  ? 

Hodge.  Who  I,  sir?  By  my  troth,  I  do  not  know 
myself,  what  I  am  now  ;  but,  sir,  I  was  a  smith,  sir ; 
a  poor  farrier  of  Putney.  That's  my  master,  sir, 
yonder ;  I  was  robbed  for  his  sake,  sir. 

Fres.  I  see  you  have  been  met  by  the  banditti, 
And  therefore  need  not  ask  how  came  you  thus  : 
But,  Frescobald,  why  dost  thou  question  them 
Of  their  estate,  and  not  relieve  their  need  ? 
Sirs, — the  coin  I  have  about  me  is  not  much ; 
There's  sixteen  ducats  for  to  clothe  yourselves, 
There's  sixteen  more  to  buy  your  diet  with, 
And  there's  sixteen  to  pay  for  your  horse-hire : 
'Tis  all  the  wealth  you  see,  my  purse  possesses ; 
But  if  you  please  for  to  inquire  me  out, 
You  shall  not  want  for  aught  that  I  can  do. 
My  name  is  Frescobald,  a  Florence  merchant : 
A  man  that  always  loved  your  nation  much. 

Crom.  This  unexpected  favor  at  your  hands,— 
Which  God  doth  know,  if  e'er  I  shall  requite, 
Necessity  makes  me  to  take  your  bounty, 


And  for  your  gold  can  yield  you  naught  but  thanks. 
Your  charity  hath  helped  me  from  despair ; 
Your  name  shall  still  be  in  my  hearty  prayer. 

Fres.  It  is  not  worth  such  thanks:  come  to  my 

house ; 
Your  want  shall  better  be  relieved  than  thus. 

Crom.  I  pray  excuse  me  ;  this  shall  well  suffice, 
To  bear  my  charges  to  Bolognia, 
Whereat  a  noble  earl  is  much  distressed  ; — 
An  Englishman,  Russel,  the  earl  of  Bedford, 
Is  by  the  French  king  sold  unto  his  death. 
It  may  fall  out  that  I  may  do  him  good : 
To  save  his  life,  I'll  hazard  my  heart's  blood : 
Therefore,  kind  sir,  thanks  for  your  liberal  gift, 
I  must  be  gone  to  aid  him ;  there's  no  shift. 

Fres.  I'll  be  no  hinderer  to  so  good  an  act, 
Heaven  prosper  you,  in  that  you  go  about : 
If  fortune  bring  you  this  way  back  again, 
Pray  let  me  see  you ;  so  I  take  my  leave  ; 
All  a  good  man  can  wish,  I  do  bequeath. 

[Exit  FHESCOBALD. 

Crom.  All  good  that  God  doth  send,  light  on  your 

head; 

There's  few  such  men  within  our  climate  bred. 
How  say  you  now,  Hodge  ?  is  not  this  good  fortune  ? 

Hodge.  How  say  you?  I'll  tell  you  what,  Master 
Thomas  ;  if  all  men  be  of  this  gentleman's  mind,  let's 
keep  our  stand  upon  this  bridge  :  we  shall  get  more 
here,  with  begging,  in  one  day,  than  I  shall  with 
making  horseshoes  in  a  whole  year. 

Crom.  No,  Hodge,  we  must  be  gone  unto  Bolognia, 
There  to  relieve  the  noble  earl  of  Bedford ; 
Where,  if  I  fail  not  in  my  policy, 
I  shall  deceive  their  subtle  treachery. 

Hodge.  Nay,  I'll  follow  you.  God  bless  us  from 
the  thieving  banditti  again.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— Bolognia.    A  Room  in  an  Hotel. 
Enter  BEDFORD  and  his  Host. 

Bed.  Am  I  betrayed  ?  was  Bedford  born  to  die, 
By  such  base  slaves,  in  such  a  place  as  this  ? 
Have  I  escaped  so  many  times  in  France, 
So  many  battles  have  I  over-passed, 
And  made  the  French  stir  when  they  heard  my  name ; 
And  am  I  now  betrayed  unto  my  death  ? 
Some  of  their  heart's  blood  first  shall  pay  for  it. 

Host.  They  do  desire,  my  lord,  to  speak  with 
you. 

Bed.  The  traitors  do  desire  to  have  my  blood, 
But  by  my  birth,  my  honor,  and  my  name,  — 
By  all  my  hopes,  my  life  shall  cost  them  dear. 
Open  the  door  ;  I'll  venture  out  upon  them, 
And,  if  I  must  die,  then  I'll  die  with  honor. 

Host.  Alas,  my  lord,  that  is  a  desperate  course  ; 
They  have  begirt  you,  round  about  the  house. 
Their  meaning  is  to  take  you  prisoner, 
And  so  to  send  your  body  unto  France. 

Bed.  First  shall  the  ocean  be  as  dry  as  sand, 
Before  alive  they  send  me  unto  France : 
I'll  have  my  body  first  bored  like  a  sieve, 
And  die  as  Hector,  'gainst  the  Myrmidons, 
E'er  France  shall  boast,  Bedford's  their  prisoner. 
O  !  treacherous  France,  that,  'gainst  the  law  of  arms, 
Hath  here  betrayed  thine  enemy  to  death  ! 
But,  be  assured,  my  blood  shall  be  revenged 
Upon  the  best  lives  that  remain  in  France. 


76 


LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  THOMAS  LORD  CROMWELL. 


Enter  a  Servant. 

Stand  back,  or  else  thou  runn'st  upon  thy  death. 

Mes.  Pardon,  my  lord,  I  come  to  tell  your  honor, 
That  they  have  hired  a  Neapolitan, 
Who,  by  his  oratory,  hath  promised  them, 
Without  the  shedding  of  one  drop  of  blood, 
Into  their  hands,  safe  to  deliver  you ; 
And  therefore  craves,  none  but  himself  may  enter, 
And  a  poor  swain  that  doth  attend  on  him. 

Bed.  A  Neapolitan  ?  bid  him  come  in.    < 

[Exit  Servant. 

Were  he  as  cunning  in  his  eloquence, 
As  Cicero,  the  famous  man  of  Rome, 
His  words  would  be  as  chaff  against  the  wind. 
Sweet-tongued  Ulysses,  that  made  Ajai  mad, 
Were  he ;  —  and  his  tongue  in  this  speaker's  head, 
Alive  he  wins  not ;  'tis  no  conquest,  dead  ! 

Enter  CROMWELL,  in  Neapolitan  habit,  and  HODGE. 

Crom.  Sir,  are  you  the  master  of  the  house  ? 

Host.  I  am,  sir. 

Crom.  By  this  same  token  you  must  leave  this 
And  leave  none  but  the  earl  and  1  together,  [place, 
And  this,  my  peasant,  here  to  tend  on  us. 

Host.  With  all  my  heart :  God  grant  you  do  some 
good. 

[Exit  Host.    CROMWELL  shuts  the  door. 

Bed.  Now,  sir,  what's  your  will  with  me  ? 

Crom.  Intends  your  honor  not  to  yield  yourself? 

Bed.  No,  goodman  goose,  not  while  my  sword  doth 
Is  this  your  eloquence  for  to  persuade  me  ?  [last. 

Crom.  My  lord,  my  eloquence  is  for  to  save  you  j 
I  am  not,  as  you  judge,  a  Neapolitan, 
But  Cromwell,  your  servant,  and  an  Englishman. 

Bed.  How !  Cromwell  ?  not  my  farrier's  son  ? 

Crom.  The  same,  sir ;  and  am  come  to  succor  you. 

Hodge.  Yes,  faith,  sir,  and  I  am  Hodge,  your  poor 
smith ;  many  a  time  and  oft  have  I  shoed  your  dap- 
ple gray. 

Bed.  And  what  avails  it  me,  that  thou  art  here? 

Crom.  It  may  avail,  if  you'll  be  ruled  by  me. 
My  lord,  you  know,  the  men  of  Mantua 
And  these  Bolognians  are  at  deadly  strife 
And  they,  my  lord,  both  love  and  honor  you. 
Could  you  but  get  out  of  the  Mantua  port, 
Then  were  you  safe,  despite  of  all  their  force. 

Bed.  Tut,  man,  thou  talk'st  of  things  impossible  ; 
Dost  thou  not  see,  that  we  are  round  beset  ? 
How  then  is't  possible  we  should  escape  ? 

Crom.  By  force  we  can  not,  but  by  policy. 
Put  on  the  apparel  here  that  Hodge  doth  wear, 
And  give  him  yours :  the  states  they  know  you  not, — 
For,  as  I  think,  they  never  saw  your  face,  — 
And,  at  a  watch-word,  must  I  call  them  in, 
And  will  desire,  that  we  two  safe  may  pass 
To  Mantua,  where  I'll  say  my  business  lies j 
How  doth  your  honor  like  of  this  device  ? 

Bed.  0,  wondrous  good:  but  wilt  thou  venture, 
Hodge? 

Hodge.  Will  I? 

Oh,  noble  lord,  I  do  accord, 

In  anything  I  can  ; 
And  do  agree  to  set  thee  free, 
Do  fortune  what  she  can. 

Bed.  Come,  then,  and  change   [we]  our  apparel 
straight. 


Crom.  Go,  Hodge,  make  haste,  lest  they  should 
chance  to  call. 

Hodge.  I  warrant  you,  I'll  fit  him  with  a  suit. 

[Exeunt  BEDFORD  and  HODGE. 

Crom.  Heaven  grant  this  policy  doth  take  success, 
And  that  the  earl  may  safely  'scape  away  ! 
And  yet  it  grieves  me  for  this  simple  wretch, 
For  fear  lest  they  should  do  him  violence  ! 
But  of  two  evils  best  to  shun  the  greatest, 
And  better  is'l  that  he  should  live  in  thrall, 
Than  such  a  noble  earl  as  this  should  fall. 
Their  stubborn  hearts,  it  may  be,  will  relent, 
Since  he  is  gone,  on  whom  their  hate  is  bent. 

Re-enter  BEDFORD  and  HODGE. 

My  lord,  have  you  despatched  ? 

Bed.  How  dost  thou  like  us,  Cromwell? — is  it 
well? 

Crom.  O,  my  good  lord,  excellent.  Hodge,  how 
dost  feel  thyself? 

Hodge.  How  do  I  feel  myself?  why,  as  a  noble 
man  should  do  !  Oh !  how  I  feel  honor  come  creeping 
on ;  my  nobility  is  wonderful  melancholy.  Is  it  not 
most  gentlemanlike  to  be  melancholy  ? 

Crom.  Yes,  Hodge ;  now  go  [and]  sit  down  in  thy 
And  take  [thy]  state  upon  thee.  [study, 

Hodge.  I  warrant  you,  my  lord;  let  me  alone  to 
take  state  upon  me :  but  hark,  my  lord,  do  you  feel 
nothing  bite  about  you  ? 

Bed.  No,  trust  me,  Hodge. 

Hodge.  Ay,  they  know  they  want  their  old  pasture. 
'Tis  a  strange  thing  of  this  vermin,  they  dare  not 
meddle  with  nobility. 

Crom.  Go  take  thy  place,  Hodge,  while  I  call  them 
All  is  now  done.  Enter,  an  if  you  please.  [in, 

[SpeaJdng  within. 

Enter  the  Governor,  and  other  States  and  Citizens  of 
Bolognia,  and  Officers  with  halberds. 

Gov.  What,  have  you  won  him  ?  will  he  yield  him- 
self? 

Crom.  I  have,  an't  please  you ;  and  the  quiet  earl 
Doth  yield  himself  to  be  disposed  by  you. 

Gov.  Give  him  the  money  that  we  promised  him  : 
So  let  him  go,  whither  he  please  himself. 

Crom.  My  business,  sir,  lies  unto  Mantua ; 
Please  you  to  give  me  a  safe  conduct  thither. 

Gov.  Go  and  conduct  him  to  the  Mantua  port, 
And  see  him  safe  delivered  presently. 

[Exeunt  CROMWELL,  BEDFORD,  and  Officers. 
Go,  draw  the  curtains,  let  us  see  the  earl : 
0,  he  is  writing,  stand  apart  awhile. 

Hodge,  [reads] .  Fellow  William,  I  am  not  as  I  have 
been.  I  went  from  you  a  smith  ;  I  write  to  you  as  a 
lord :  I  am  at  this  present  writing,  among  the  Bono* 
nian  sausages.  I  do  commend  my  lordship  to  Ralph 
and  to  Roger ;  to  Bridget  and  to  Dorothy,  and  so  to 
all  the  youth  of  Putney. 

Gov.  Sure  these  are  names  of  English  noblemen, 
Some  of  his  special  friends  to  whom  he  writes : 
But  stay,  he  doth  address  himself  to  sing. 

[HODGE  sings  a  long, 

My  lord,  I'm  glad  yon  are  so  frolic  and  blithe  ; 
Believe  me,  noble  lord,  if  you  knew  all, 
You'd  change  your  merry  vein  to  sudden  sorrow. 

Hodge.  I  change  my  merry  vein?  no,  thou  Bono- 
nian,  no  ; 


ACT  III.  — SCENE  III. 


77 


I  am  a  lord,  and  therefore  let  me  go  ; 

I  do  defy  thee  and  thy  sausages  : 

Therefore  stand  off,  and  come  not  near  my  honor. 

Gov.  My  lord,  this  jesting  can  not  serve  your  turn. 

Hodge.  Dost  think,  thou  black  Bononian  beast, 
That  I  do  flout,  do  jibe,  or  jest  ? 
No,  no,  thou  bear-pot ;  know  that  I, 
A  noble  earl,  a  lord  par-dy.  [A  trumpet  sounds. 

Gov.  What  means  this  trumpet's  sound  ? 
Enter  a  Messenger. 

Cit.  One  is  come  hither  from  the  states  of  Mantua. 

Gov.  What  would  you  with  us  ?    Speak,  thou  man 
of  Mantua ! 

Mess.  Men  of  Bolognia,  this  my  message  is, 
To  let  you  know  the  noble  earl  of  Bedford 
Is  safe  within  the  town  of  Mantua, 
And  wills  you  send  the  peasant  that  you  have, 
Who  hath  deceived  your  expectation  ; 
Or  else  the  states  of  Mantua  have  vowed 
They  will  recall  the  truce  that  they  have  made, 
And  not  a  man  shall  stir  from  forth  your  town, 
That  shall  return,  unless  you  send  him  back. 

Gov.  0,  this  misfortune,  how  it  mads  my  heart ! 
The  Neapolitan  hath  beguiled  us  all. 
Hence  with  this  fool.    What  should  we  do  with  him, 
The  earl  being  gone  ?    A  plague  upon  it  all ! 

Hodge.  No,  I'll  assure  you,  I  am  no  earl,  but  a 

smith,  sir  — 

One  Hodge,  a  smith  at  Putney,  sir ;  one  that  hath 
Gulled  you  ;  that  hath  bored  you,  sir. 

Gov.  Away  with  him ;  take  hence  the  fool  you 
came  for. 

Hodge.  Ay,  sir.    I  leave  the  greater  fool  with  you. 

Mess.  Farewell,  Bolognians.1    Come,  friend,  along 
with  me. 

Hodge.  My  friend,  afore  j  my  lordship  will  follow 
thee.  [Exit. 

Gov.  Well,  Mantua,  since  by  thee  the  earl  is  lost, 
Within  few  days  I  hope  to  see  thee  crost.    [Exeunt. 

Enter  Chorus. 

Cho.  Thus  far  you  see  how  Cromwell's  fortune 

passed. 

The  earl  of  Bedford,  being  safe  in  Mantua, 
Desires  Cromwell's  company  into  France, 
To  make  requital  for  his  courtesy : 
But  Cromwell  doth  deny  the  earl  his  suit, 
And  tells  him  that  those  parts  he  meant  to  see, 
He  had  not  yet  set  footing  on  the  land : 
And  so  directly  takes  his  way  to  Spain  — 
The  earl  to  France  —  and  so  they  both  do  part. 
Now,  let  your  thoughts,  as  swift  as  is  the  wind, 
Skip  some  few  years  that  Cromwell  spent  hi  travel : 
And  now  imagine  him  to  be  in  England, 
Servant  unto  the  master  of  the  rolls ; 
Where,  in  short  time,  he  there  began  to  flourish: 
An  hour  shall  show  you  what  few  years  did  cherish. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  III.  —  London.  A  Room  in  Sir  CHRISTOPHER 
HALES'  House.  Music  plays  ;  then  a  Banquet.  En- 
ter Sir  CHRISTOPHER  HALES,  CROMWELL,  and  two 
Servants. 

Hales.  Come,  sirs,  be  careful  of  your  master's 
credit ; 

1  I  should  be  for  giving  this  affectionate  parting  apostro- 
phe to  Hodge,  and  the  rest  of  the  lino  to  the  messenger. 


And  as  our  bounty  now  exceeds  the  figure 
Of  common  entertainment,  so  do  you, 
With  looks  as  free  as  is  your  master's  soul, 
Give  formal  welcome  to  the  thronged  tables 
That  shall  receive  the  cardinal's  followers 
And  the  attendants  of  the  great  lord  chancellor. 
But,  Cromwell,  all  my  care  depends  on  thee  : 
Thou  art  a  man,  differing  from  vulgar  form, 
And  by  how  much  thy  spirit's  ranked  'bove  these, 
In  rules  of  art,  by  so  much  it  shines  brighter 
By  travel,  whose  observance  pleads  thy3  merit, 
In  a  most  learned  yet  unaffected3  spirit. 
Good  Cromwell,  cast  an  eye  of  fair  regard 
'Bout  all  my  house  —  and  what  this  ruder  flesh, 
Through  ignorance,  or  wine,  do  miscreate, 
Salve  thou  with  courtesy :  if  welcome  want, 
Full  bowls  and  ample  banquets  will  seem  scant. 

Crom.  Sir,  whatsoever  lies  in  me,  assure  you 
I  will  show  my  utmost  duty. 

[Exit  CROMWELL. 

Hales.  About  it,  then ;  the  lords  will  straight  be 

here. 

Cromwell,  thou  hast  those  parts  would  rather  suit 
The  service  of  the  state  than  of  my  house  : 
I  look  upon  thee  with  a  loving  eye, 
That  one  day  will  prefer  thy  destiny. 

Enter  Messenger. 

Mess.  Sir,  the  lords  be  at  hand. 

Hales.  They  are  welcome  ;  bid  Cromwell  straight 

attend  us, 
And  look  you  all  things  be  in  readiness. 

The  Music  plays.   Enter  Cardinal  WOLSEY,  Sir  THOM- 
AS MORE,  GARDINER,  CROMWELL,  and  Attendants. 

Wol.  O,  Sir  Christopher, 
You  are  too  liberal :  what,  a  banquet  too  ? 

Hales.  My  lords,  if  words  could  show  the  ample 

welcome 

That  my  free  heart  affords  you,  I  could  then 
Become  a  prater :  but  I  now  must  deal 
Like  a  feast-politician  with  your  lordships  j 
Defer  your  welcome  till  the  banquet  end, 
That  it  may  then  salve  our  defect  of  fare  : 
Yet  welcome  now,  and  all  that  tend  on  you. 

Wol.  Our  thanks  to  the  kind  master  of  the  rolls. 
Come  and  sit  down ;  —  sit  down,  Sir  Thomas  More. 
'Tis  strange  how  that  we  and  the  Spaniard  differ : 
Their  dinner  is  our  banquet,  after  dinner, 
And  they  are  men  of  active  disposition. 
This  I  gather,  that,  by  their  sparing  meat, 
Their  bodies  are  more  fitter  for  the  wars ; 
And  if  that  famine  chance  to  pinch  their  maws, 
Being  used  to  fast,  it  breeds  in  them  less  pain. 

Hales.  Fill  me  some  wine ;  I'll  answer  Cardinal 

Wolsey : — 

My  lord,  we  English  are  of  more  free  souls 
Than  hunger-starved  and  ill-complexioned  Spaniards. 
They  that  are  rich,  in  Spain,  spare  belly-food, 
To  deck  their  backs  with  an  Italian  hood, 
And  silks  of  Seville :  and  the  poorest  snake, 
That  feeds  on  lemons,  pilchards,  and  ne'er  heated 
His  palate  with  sweet  flesh,  will  bear  a  case 
More  fat  and  gallant  than  his  starved  face. 

8  Elsewhere  it  reads,  "  hit  merit" 
3  Other  editions,  "  unaffec tiug." 


78 


LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  THOMAS  LORD  CROMWELL. 


Pride,  the  inquisition,  and  this  belly-evil, 

Are,  in  my  judgment,  Spain's  three-headed  devil.i 

More.  Indeed,  it  is  a  plague  unto  their  nation, 
Who  stagger  after  in  blind  imitation. 

Hales.  My  lords,  with  welcome,'  I  present  your  lord- 
A  solemn  health.  [ships 

More.  I  love  healths  well,  but  when  that  healths 

do  bring 

Pain  to  the  head,  and  body's  surfeiting, 
Then  cease  I  healths : 

Nay,  spill  not,  friend,  for  though  the  drops  be  small, 
Yet  have  they  force,  to  force  men  to  the  wall. 

Wol.  Sir  Christopher,  is  that  your  man  ? 

Hales.  An  it  like 

Your  grace,  he  is  a  scholar  and  a  linguist  — 
One  that  hath  travelled  over  many  parts 
Of  Christendom,  my  lord. 

Wol.  My  friend,  come  nearer.    Hare  you  been  a 
traveller  ? 

Croro.  My  lord, 

I've  added  to  my  knowledge  the  Low  Countries, 
With  France,  Spain,  Germany,  and  Italy : 
And  though  small  gain  of  profit  I  did  find, 
Yet  did  it  please  my  eye,  content  my  mind. 

Wol.  What  do  you  think,  then,  of  the  several  states 
And  princes'  courts  that  you  have  travelled  [through]  ? 

Crom.  My  lord,  no  court  with  England  may  com- 
pare, 

Neither  for  state,  nor  civil  government : 
Lust  dwells  in  France,  in  Italy,  and  Spain, 
From  the  poor  peasant  to  the  prince's  train ; 
In  Germany  and  Holland,  riot  serves, 
And  he  that  most  can  drink,  he  most  deserves. 
England  I  praise  not,  for  I  here  was  born, 
But  that  she  laughs  the  others  all  to  scorn. 

Wol.  My  lord,  there  dwells  within  that  spirit  more 
Than  can  be  discerned  by  the  outward  eye. 
Sir  Christopher,  will  you  part  with  your  man  ? 

Hales.  I  have  sought  to  proffer  him  unto  your  lord- 
ship, 
And  now  I  see  he  hath  preferred  himself. 

Wol.  What  is  thy  name  ? 

Crom.  Cromwell,  my  lord. 

Wol.  Then,  Cromwell,  here  we  make  thee  of  our 

causes 

Solicitor,  and  nearest  next  ourself. 
Gardiner,  give  you  kind  welcome  to  the  man. 

[GARDINER  embraces  him. 

More.  Oh,  my  lord  cardinal,  you're  a  royal  winner : 
Have  got  a  man,  besides  your  bounteous  dinner : 
Well  may  you  pray,  knight,  that  we  come  no  more  — 
If  we  come  often,  thou  may'st  shut  thy  door. 

Wol.  Sir  Christopher,  hadst  thou  given  me  half  thy 

lands, 

Thou  couldst  not  have  pleased  me  so  much  as  with 
This  man  of  thine.    My  infant  thoughts  do  spell, 
Shortly,  his  fortune  shall  be  lifted  higher ; 
True  industry  doth  kindle  honor's  fire, 
And  so,  kind  master  of  the  rolls,  farewell. 

Hales.  Cromwell,  farewell. 

Crom.  Cromwell  takes  leave  of  you 

That  ne'er  will  leave  to  love  and  honor  you.  [Exeunt. 

[The  music  plays  as  they  go  out. 

I  The  philosophy  of  Hales  is  more  decidedly  true  than 
that  of  Wolsey.  John  Bull  owea  much  of  hifl  fighting 
propensity  to  hi»  bee£ 

•  "  With  welcome" — with  permission. 


ACT   IV. 

Enter  Chorus. 

Cho.  Now  Cromwell's  highest  fortunes  do  begin. 
Wolsey,  that  loved  him  as  he  did  his  life 
Committed  all  his  treasure  to  his  hands. 
Wolsey  is  dead  ;  and  Gardiner,  his  man, 
Is  now  created  bishop  of  Winchester. 
Pardon,  if  we  omit  all  Wolsey's  life, 
Because  our  play  depends  on  Cromwell's  death. 
Now  sit  and  see  his  highest  state  of  all, 
His  height  of  rising,  and  his  sudden  fall. 
Pardon  the  errors  are  already  past, 
And  live  in  hope  the  best  doth  come  at  last : 
My  hope  upon  your  favor  doth  depend, 
And  looks  to  have  your  liking  ere  the  end.        [Exit 

SCENE  I.—  The  same.    A  public  Walk. 

Enter  GARDINER,  Bishop  of  Winchester,  the  Dukes  of 
Norfolk  and  Suffolk,  Sir  THOMAS  MORE,  Sir  CHRIS- 
TOFHER  HALES,  and  CROMWELL. 

Norf.  Master  Cromwell,  since  Cardinal  Wolsey's 
His  majesty  is  given  to  understand  [death, 

There's  certain  bills  and  writings  in  your  hand 
That  much  concern  the  [present]  state  of  England. 
My  lord  of  Winchester,  is  it  not  so  ? 

Gar.  My  lord  of  Norfolk,  we  two  were  whilome 

fellows, 

And  Master  Cromwell  —  though  our  master's  love 
Did  bind  us,  while  his  love  was  to  the  king 
It  is  no  boot  now  to  deny  those  things 
Which  may  be  prejudicial  to  the  state : 
And  though  that  God  hath  raised  my  fortune  higher 
Than  any  way  I  looked  for,  or  deserved, 
Yet  may  my  life  no  longer  with  me  dwell, 
Than  I  prove  true  unto  my  sovereign. 

Suff.  What  say  you,  Master  Cromwell  ?  Have  you 
[Speak  !]  ay  or  no  ?  [those  writings  ? 

Crom.  Here  are  the  writings,  and  upon  my  knees 
I  give  them  up  unto  the  worthy  dukes 
Of  Suffolk  and  of  Norfolk. 
He  was  my  master,  and  each  virtuous  part 
That  lived  in  him  I  tendered  with  my  heart  ; 
But  what  his  head  complotted  'gainst  the  state, 
My  country's  love  commands  me  that  to  hate. 
His  sudden  death  I  grieve  for,  not  his  fall, 
Because  he  sought  to  work  my  country's  thrall. 

Suff.  Cromwell,  the  king  shall  hear  of  this  thy 
Who,  I  assure  myself,  will  well  reward  thee.    [duty, 
My  lord,  let's  go  unto  his  majesty, 
And  show  these  writings  which  he  longs  to  see. 

[Exeunt  NORFOLK  and  SUFFOLK. 

Enter  BEDFORD  liastily. 

Bed.  How  now?  who  is  this  ?  Cromwell?    By  my 

soul, 

Welcome  to  England !    Thou  didst  save  my  life, 
Didst  thou  not,  Cromwell  ? 

Crom.  If  I  did  so,  'tis  greater  glory 
For  me  [my  lord] ,  that  you  remember  it, 
Than  for  myself  [now]  vainly  to  report  it. 

Bed.  Well,  Cromwell,  now's  the  time  [for  grati- 
I  shall  commend  thee  to  my  sovereign :          [tude :] 
Cheer  up  thyself,  for  I  will  raise  thy  state  j 
A  Russell  yet  was  never  found  ingrate.  [Exit 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  II. 


70 


Hales.  0  how  uncertain  is  the  wheel  of  state  I1 
Who  lately  greater  than  the  cardinal, 
For  fear  and  love  ?     And  now  who  lower  lies  ? 
Gay  honors  are  but  fortune's  flatteries ; 
And  whom,  this  day,  pride  and  promotion'  swell, 
To-morrow  envy  and  ambition  quell. 

More.  Who  sees  the  cobweb  tangle  the  poor  fly, 
May  boldly  say  the  wretch's  death  is  nigh. 

Gar.  I  know  his  state  and  proud  ambition 
Were  too,  too  violent  to  last  o'er  long. 

Hales.  Who  soars  too  near  the  sun  with  golden 

wings, 
Melts  them  ;  —  to  ruin  his  own  fortune  brings. 

Enter  the  Luke  of  SUFFOLK. 

Suff.  Cromwell,  kneel  down,  and,  in  King  Henry's 
Arise,  Sir  Thomas  ;  —  thus  begins  thy  fame,  [name, 

Enter  the  Duke  of  NORFOLK. 

Norf.  Cromwell,  the  gracious  majesty  of  England, 
For  the  good  liidng  he  conceives  of  thee, 
Makes  thee  the  master  of  the  jewel-house  ; 
Chief  secretary  to  himself ;  and,  withal, 
Creates  thee  one  of  his  highness'  privy  council. 

Enter  the  Earl  of  BEDFORD. 

Bed.   Where  is   Sir  Thomas   Cromwell  ?      Is  he 
knighted  ? 

Suff.  He  is,  my  lord. 

Bed.  Then,  to  add  honor  to 

His  name,  the  king  creates  him  lord  keeper  of 
His  privy  seal,'  and  master  of  the  rolls  — 
Which  you,  Sir  Christopher,  do  now  enjoy  ;•* 
The  king  determines  higher  place  for  you. 

Crom.  My  lords, 
These  honors  are  too  high  for  my  desert. 

More.  0,  content  thee,  man,  who  would  not  choose 
Yet  thou  art  wise  in  seeming  to  refuse  it.  [it  ? 

Gar.  Here  are  honors,  titles,  and  promotions  ! 
I  fear  this  climbing  will  have  sudden  fall.       [Aside.]* 

Norf.  Then  come,  my  lords,  let's  all  together  bring 
This  new-made  counsellor  to  England's  king. 

[Exeunt  all  but  GARDINER. 

Gar.  But  Gardiner  means  his  glory  shall  be  dimmed ! 
Shall  Cromwell  live  a  greater  man  than  I  ? 
My  envy  with  his  honor  now  is  bred  : 
I  hope  to  shorten  Cromwell  by  the  head.  [Exit. 

i  We  should  probably  read  it  "  fate"  with  more  propriety 
— fate  in  the  sense  of  fortune. 

*  Some  of  the  editions  read,  "  pride  and  ambition,"  but  I 
see  no  reason  to  disturb  the  text. 

3  The  rise  of  Cromwell  to  the  highest  honors  of  the  state 
was  certainly  sudden,  but  not  quite  so  rapid  as  the  author 
has  represented.    In  1531,  he  was  made  a  privy  counsellor 
and  master  of  the  jewel-house  ;  and  the  next  year  clerk  of 
the  hanaper  and  chancellor  of  the  exchequer ;  in  1534,  prin- 
cipal secretary  of  state  and  master  of  the  rolls.    The  follow- 
ing year  he  was  appointed  vicar-general  over  all  the  spiritu- 
alities in  England,  under  the  king ;  on  the  2d  of  July,  1536, 
lord  keeper  of  the  privy  seal ;  and,  soon  afterward,  he  was 
advanced  to  the  dignity  of  a  baron.    In  1537,  he  was  created 
knight  of  the  garter ;  and,  in  1540,  earl  of  Essex  and  lord 
high  chamberlain  of  England.— MALONE.    Mr.  Malone  has 
been  at  great  and  unnecessary  pains  to  show  that  our  drama- 
tist was  not  also  a  chronologist. 

4  The  fact  was  exactly  the  reverse  of  what  is  here  stated. 
Cromwell's  predecessor  in  this  office  was  not  Sir  Christo- 
pher Hales,  but  Dr.  Taylor ;  and  Hales  (who  was  the  king's 
attorney-general)  succeeded  Cromwell  in  the  rolls  ;  not,  how- 
ever, immediately  on  his  advancement  to  the  office  of  keeper 
of  the  privy  seal. — MALONE. 

6  I  add  this  stage  direction,  which  seems  necessary,  and 
is  appropriate. 


SCENE  II.  — London.    A  Street  before  CROMWELL'* 
House. 

Enter  FHESCOBALD. 

Fres.  O  Frescobald  !  what  shall  become  of  thee  ? 
Where  shalt  thou  go,  or  whither  shall  thou  turn  ? 
Fortune,  that  turns  her  too-inconstant  wheelr 
Hath  drowned6  thy  wealth  and  riches  in  the  sea. 
All  parts  abroad,  wherever  I  have  been, 
Grow  weary  of  me,  and  deny  me  succor  ; 
My  debtors,  they  that  should  relieve  my  want,. 
Forswear  my  money  —  say  they  owe  me  none  : 
They  know  my  state  too  mean  to  bear  out  law  j 
And  herer  in  London,  where  I  oft  have  been, 
And  have  done  good  to  many  a  wretched  manr 
Am'  now  most  wretched  and  despised  myself. 
In  vain  it  is  more  of  their  hearts  to  try: 
Be  patient,  therefore,  lay  thee  down  and  die  ! 

[Lies  down. 
Enter  SEELY  and  JOAN. 

Seely.  Come,  Joan  ;  come,  let's  see  what  he'll  do 
for  us  now.  I  wis  we  have  done  for  him,  when  many 
a  time  and  often  he  might  have  gone  a  hungry  to  bed. 

Wife.  Alas!  man,  now  he  is  made  a  lord,  he'll  nev- 
er look  upon  us  ;  he'll  fulfil  the  old  proverb :  Set  beg- 
gars a  horseback,  and  they'll  ride  !  Ah  !  well-a-day 
for  my  cow  !  Such  as  he  hath  made  us  come  behind- 
hand :  we  had  never  pawned  our  cow  else  to  pay  our 
rent. 

Seely.  Well,  Joan,  he'll  come  this  way :  and  by 
God's  dickers,  I'll  tell  him  roundly  of  it;  an  if  he 
were  ten  lords,  he  shall  know  that  I  had  not  my 
cheese  and  my  bacon  for  nothing. 

Wife.  Do  you  remember,  husband,  how  he  would 
mounch  upon  my  cheese-cakes  ?  He  hath  forgot  this 
now ;  but  now  we'll  remember  him. 

Seely.  Ay,  we  shall  have  now  three  flaps  with  a  fox- 
tail :  but  i'faith  I'll  jibber  a  joint,7  but  I'll  tell  him 
his  own.  Stay,  who  comes  here  ?  O,  stand  up ;  here 
he  comes  ;  stand  up. 

Enter  HODGE,  unth  a  tip-staff  ;  CROMWELL,  unth  the 
mace  carried  before  him  ;  the  Dukes  of  NORFOLK  and 
SUFFOLK,  and  Attendants. 

Hodge.  Come,  away  with  these  beggars  here.  Rise 
Sirrah ;  come  out,  good  people.  Run  before,  [up, 
There,  ho  !  [FRESCOBALD  rise*  and  stands  aloof. 

Seely.  Ay,  we  are  kicked  away  now,  now  we  come 
for  our  own ;  the  time  hath  been,  he  would  a  looked 
more  friendly  upon  us.  And  you,  Hodge,  we  know 
you  well  enough,  though  you  are  so  fine. 

Crom.  Come  hither,  sirrah ;  stay,  what  men  are 
My  honest  host  of  Hounslow,  and  his  wife  ?  [these  ? 
I  owe  thee  money,  father,  do  I  not  ? 

Seely.  Ay,  by  the  body  of  me,  dost  thou  :  would 
thou  wouldst  pay  me  j  good  four  pound  it  is  :  I  have 
the  post  o't  at  home. 

Crom.  I  know  'tis  true.    Sirrah,  give  him  ten  an- 
And  look  your  wife  and  you  do  stay  to  dinner.8  [gels ; 
And  while  you  live,  I  freely  give  to  you 
Four  pound  a  year,  for  the  four  pound  I  owed  you. 

6  "  Turned,"  is  the  old  reading.    ?  "  And"  in  other  copies. 

8  Jeopard  a  joint— that  is,  risk  a  limb,  for  my  object. 

9  Stowe  says  (quoted  by  Malone)  that  he  had  himself  "  of- 
ten seen  at  Lord  Cromwell's  gate  more  than  two  hundred 
persons  served  twice  every  day  with  bread,  meat,  and  drink, 
sufficient" 


80 


LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  THOMAS  LORD  CROMWELL. 


Seely.  Th'art  not  changed  ;  th'art  old  Tom  still !  — 
Now,  God  bless  thee,  good  Lord  Tom  !  Home,  Joan, 
home ;  I'll  dine  with  my  Lord  Tom  to-day,  and  thou 
shall  come  next  week.  Fetch  my  cow ;  home,  Joan, 
home. 

Wife.  Now,  God  bless  thee,  my  good  Lord  Tom  ! 
Fetch  my  cow  presently.  [I'll 

[Exit  JOAN. 

Enter  GARDINER. 

Crom.  Sirrah,  go  to  yon  stranger :  tell  him  I 
Desire  him  stay  to  dinner  :  I  must  speak 
With  him.  [To  HODGE. 

Gar.  My  lord  of  Norfolk,  see  you  this  same  bubble  ? 
That's  a  mere  puff;1  but  mark  the  end,  my  lord  ; 
But  mark  the  end  ! 

Norf.  I  promise  you,  I  like  not  something  he  hath 

done  ; 
But  let  that  pass  ;  the  king  doth  love  him  well. 

Croni.  Good-morrow  to  my  lord  of  Winchester : 
You  bear  me  hard  about  the  abbey  lands. 

Gar.  Have  I  not  reason,  when  religion  's  wronged? 
You  had  no  color  for  what  you  have  done. 

Crom.  Yes,  the  abolishing  of  Antichrist, 
And  of  his  popish  order,  from  our  realm. 
I  am  no  enemy  to  religion, 
But  what  is  done,  it  is  for  England's  good. 
What  did  they  serve  for,  but  to  feed  a  sort 
Of  lazy  abbots  and  of  full-fed  friars  ? 
They  neither  plough  nor  sow,  and  yet  they  reap 
The  fat  of  all  the  land,  and  suck  the  poor. 
•Look,  what  was  theirs  is  in  King  Henry's  hands : 
His  wealth  before  lay  in  the  abbey  lands. 

Gar.  Indeed,  these  things  you  have  alleged,  my 

lord: 

When,  God  doth  know,  the  infant  yet  unborn 
Will  curse  the  time  the  abbeys  were  pulled  down. 
I  pray  now  where  is  hospitality  ? 
Where  now  may  poor  distressed  people  go, 
For  to  relieve  their  need,  or  rest  their  bones, 
When  weary  travel  doth  oppress  their  limbs  ? 
And  where  religious  men  should  take  them  in, 
Shall  now  be  kept  back  by  a  mastiff-dog  ; 
And  thousand,  thousand 

Norf.  O  my  lord,  no  more  ; 

Things  past  redress  'tis  bootless  to  complain. 

Crom.  What,  shall  we  to  the  convocation-house  ? 

Norf.  We'll  follow  you,  my  lord;  pray,  lead  the 
way. 

Enter  old  CROMWELL,  in  the  dress  of  a  Farmer. 

Old  Crom.  How  !  one  Cromwell  made  lord  keeper 
since  I  left  Putney  and  dwelt  in  Yorkshire  ?  I  never 
heard  better  news :  I'll  see  that  Cromwell,  or  it  shall 
go  hard. 

Crom.  My  aged  father  here  !     State  set  aside. 
Father,  upon  my  knee  I  crave  your  blessing. 
One  of  my  servants  go  and  have  him  in ; 
At  better  leisure  will  we  talk  with  him. 

Old  Crom,  Now  if  I  die,  how  happy  were  the  day ! 
To  see  this  comfort,  weeps  and  rains  forth  showers 
of  joy.  [Exit  old  CROMWELL 

with.  Servant. 

Norf.  This  duty  in  him  shows  a  kind  of  grace. 

[Aside. 

1  In  the  old  editions  it  reads,  "  That  same  puff." 


Crom.  Go  on  before,  for  time  draws  on  apace. 

[Exeunt  all  but  FRESCOBALD. 

Fres.  I  wonder  what  this  lord  would  have  with  me, 
His  man  so  strictly  gave  me  charge  to  stay  ? 
I  never  did  offend  him  to  my  knowledge. 
Well,  good  or  bad,  I  mean  to  bide  it  all ; 
Worse  than  I  am  now,  never  can  befall. 

Enter  BANISTER  and  his  Wife. 

Ban.  Come,  wife,  I  take  it  be  almost  dinner-time  ; 
For  Master  Newton  and  Master  Crosby  sent  to  me 
Last  night,  they  would  come  dine  with  me  [to-day] , 
And  take  their  bond  in.—  Pray  thee,  hie  thee  home, 
And  see  that  all  things  be  in  readiness. 

Mrs.  Ban.  They  shall  be  welcome;  husband,  I'll 

But  is  not  that  man  Master  Frescobald  ?         [before. 

[She  runs  and  embraces  him, 

Ban.  0  Heavens  !  it  is  kind  Master  Frescobald. 
Say,  sir,  what  hap  hath  brought  you  to  this  pass  ? 

Fres.  The  same  that  brought  you  to  your  misery. 

Ban.  Why  would  you  not  acquaint  me  with  your 
Is  Banister,  your  poor  friend,  then  forgot,       [state  ? 
Whose  goods,  whose  love,  whose  life  and  all,  are 
yours? 

Fres.  I  thought  your  usage  would  be  as  the  rest, 
That  had  more  kindness  at  my  hands  than  you, 
Yet  looked  askance  when  as  they  saw  me  poor. 

Mrs.  Ban.  If  Banister  could  bear  so  base  a  heart, 
I  ne'er  would  look  my  husband  in  the  face, 
But  hate  him  as  I  would  a  cockatrice. 

Ban.  And  well  thou  might'st,  should  Banister  so 

deal ! 

Since  that  I  saw  you,  sir,  my  state  is  mended  : 
And,  for  the  thousand  pound  I  owe  to  you, 
I  have  it  ready  for  you,  sir,  at  home ; 
And  though  I  grieve  your  fortune  is  so  had, 
Yet,  that  my  hap's  to  help  you,  makes  me  glad. 
And  now,  sir,  will  it  please  you  walk  with  me  ? 

Fres.  Not  yet ;  I  can  not :  for  the  lord  chancellor 
Hath  here  commanded  me  to  wait  on  him  ; 
For  what,  I  know  not :  pray  God  it  be  for  good. 

Ban.  Never  make  doubt  of  that !  I'll  warrant  you  ! 
He  is  as  kind  and  noble  a  gentleman 
As  ever  did  possess  the  place  he  hath. 

Mrs.  Ban.  My  brother  is  his  steward,  sir  ;  if  you 

please, 

We'll  go  along  and  bear  you  company ; 
I  know  we  shall  not  want  for  welcome  there. 

Fres.  With  all  my  heart !    But  what's  become  of 
Bagot  ? 

Ban.  He  is  hanged  for  buying  jewels  of  the  king's. 

Fres.  A  just  reward  for  one  so  impious  ! 
The  time  draws  on,  sir ;  will  you  go  along  ? 

Ban.  I'll  follow  you,  kind  Master  Frescobald. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  The  same.    Another  Street. 
Enter  NEWTON  and  CROSBT. 

New.  Now,  Master  Crosby,  I  see  you  have  a  care 
To  keep  your  word,  in  payment  of  your  money. 

Cros.  By  my  faith,  I  have  some  reason  on  a  bond: 
Three  thousand  pounds  is  far  too  much  to  forfeit ; 
Yet  do  I  doubt  not  Master  Banister. 

New.  By  my  faith,  sir,  your  sum  is  more  than  mint  j 
And  yet  I  am  not  much  behind  you,  too, 
Considering  what  to-day  I  paid  at  court. 


ACT  IV.  — SCENE  V. 


81 


Cros.  Mass,  and  'tis  well  remembered !  What's  the 

reason 

That  the  Lord  Cromwell's  men  wear  such  long  skirts 
Upon  their  coats  ?    They  reach  down  to  their  hams. 

New.  I  will  resolve  you,  sir  ;  and  thus  it  is  : 
The  bishop  of  Winchester,  that  loves  not  Cromwell  — 
As  great  men  are  envied  as  well  as  less  — 
A  while  ago  there  was  a  jar  between  them, 
And  it  was  brought  to  my  Lord  Cromwell's  ear, 
That  Bishop  Gardiner  would  sit  on  his  skirts  ; 
Upon  which  word  he  made  his  men  long  blue  coats, 
And,  in  the  court,  wore  one  of  them  himself: 
And,  meeting  with  the  bishop —  quoth  he,  My  lord, 
Here's  skirts  enough  now  for  your  grace  to  sit  on : 
Which  vexed  the  bishop  to  the  very  heart. 
This  is  the  reason  why  they  wear  these  long  coats.1 

Cros.  'Tis  always  seen,  and  mark  it  for  a  rule, 
That  one  great  man  will  envy  still  another ; 
But  'tis  a  thing  that  nothing  concerns  me. 
What,  shall  we  now  to  Master  Banister? 

New.  Ay,  come,  we'll  pay  him  royally  for  our  din- 
ner. .  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  Room  in  CROMWELL'S  House. 

Enter  the  Usher  and  the  Sewer.8    Servants  cross  the 
Stage  with  Dishes  in  their  hands. 

Usher.  Uncover,  there,  gentlemen.  [To  Attendants. 

Enter  CROMWELL,  BEDFORD,  SUFFOLK,  old  CROMWELL, 
FRESCOBALD,  SEELY,  and  Attendants. 

Crom.  My  noble  lords  of  Suffolk  and  of  Bedford, 
Your  honors  are  welcome  to  poor  Cromwell's  house. 
Where  is  my  father  ?    Nay,  be  covered,  father ; 
Although  that  duty  to  these  noble  men 
Doth  challenge  it,  yet  I'll  make  bold  with  them. 
Your  head  doth  bear  the  calendar  of  care  : 
What !  Cromwell  covered,  and  his  father  bare  ? 
It  must  not  be.  —  Now,  sir,  to  you :  is  not 
Your  name  Frescobald,  and  a  Florentine  ? 

Fres.  My  name  was  Frescobald,  till  cruel  fate 
Did  rob  me  of  my  name  and  of  my  state. 

Crom.  What  fortune  brought  you  to  this  country 
now  ? 

Fres.  All  other  parts  have  left  me  succorless, 
Save  only  this.    Because  of  debts  I  have, 
I  hope  to  gain  for  to  relieve  my  want. 

Crom.  Did  you  not  once,  upon  your  Florence  bridge, 
Help  a  distressed  man,  robbed  by  the  banditti  ? 
His  name  was  Cromwell. 

Fres.  I  never  made  my  brain 

i  Whatever  might  have  been  the  reason,  the  fact  is  as  here 
represented.  Stowe,  who  tells  us  that  he  remembered  Crom- 
well's household,  says  that  the  skirts  of  his  yeomen  in  livery 
were  large  enough  for  his  friends  to  sit  upon  them. — MA- 
LONE.  Is  not  this  story  of  the  bishop  sitting  on  his  skirts 


rmciuayiicuii  uiiu  ^ctriuiiai  vvuisey  is  somewiiai  unierenc. 
The  duke  one  day,  holding  a  basin  for  the  king  to  wash,  as 
soon  as  his  majesty  had  done,  the  cardinal  dipped  his  hands 
in  the  same  water.  The  duke,  resenting  this  as  an  indigni- 
ty, spilled  some  of  the  water  in  Wolsey's  shoes,  with  which, 
the  cardinal  being  provoked,  threatened  him  that  he  would 
sit  on  his  skirts.  Buckingham,  the  next  day,  came  to  court 
very  richly  dressed,  but  without  skirts  to  his  doublet,  assign- 
ing, as  a  reason,  to  the  king,  for  this  strange  omission,  his 
purpose  to  prevent  Wolsey  from  executing  his  threat 

*  Tho  sewer,  or  shewer,  was  the  officer  in  ancient  times 
who  set  and  removed  the  dishes,  and  tasted  them. 


A  calendar  of  any  good  I  did ; 

I  always  loved  this  nation  with  my  heart. 

Crom.  I  am  that  Cromwell  that  you  there  relieved. 
You  gave  me,  for  to  clothe  me,  sixteen  ducats, 
Sixteen  to  bear  my  charges  by  the  way, 
And  sixteen  more  I  had  for  my  horse-hire. 
There  be  those  several  sums  justly  returned ; 
Yet  'twere  injustice,  serving  at  my  need, 
For  to  repay  thee  without  interest : 
Therefore  receive  of  me  these  several  bags  ; 
In  each  of  them  there  are  four  hundred  marks ; 
And  bring  to  me  the  names  of  all  your  debtors, 
And  if  they  will  not  see  you  paid,  I  will. 
0,  God  forbid  that  I  should  see  him  fall, 
That  helped  me  in  my  greatest  need  of  all. 
Here  stands  my  father  that  first  gave  me  life  — 
Alas  !  what  duty  is  too  much  for  him  ? 
This  man  in  time  of  need  did  save  my  life  — 
I  therefore  can  not  do  too  much  for  him. 
By  this  old  man  I  oftentimes  was  fed, 
Else  might  I  have  gone  supperless  to  bed. 
Such  kindness  have  I  had  of  these  three  men, 
That  Cromwell  no  way  can  repay  agen. 
Now,  in  to  dinner,  for  we  stay  too  long, 
And,  to  good  stomachs,  there's  no  greater  wrong. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  A  Room  in  the  Bishop  of  WINCHESTER'! 
House. 

Enter  GARDINER  and  Servant. 

Gar.  Sirrah,  where  be  those  men  I  caused  to  stay  ? 

Ser.  They  do  attend  your  pleasure,  sir,  within. 

Gar.  Bid  them  come  hither,  and  stay  you  without ; 

[Exit  Servant. 

For,  by  these  men  the  fox  of  this  same  land, 
That  makes  a  goose  of  better  than  himself, 
Must  worried  be  even  to  his  latest  home, 
Or  Gardiner  will  fail  in  his  intent. 
As  for  the  dukes  of  Suffolk  and  of  Norfolk, 
Whom  I  have  sent  for,  to  come  speak  with  me, 
Howsoever  outwardly  they  shadow  it, 
Yet  in  their  hearts  I  know  they  love  him  not. 
As  for  the  earl  of  Bedford,  he's  but  one, 
And  dares  not  gainsay  what  we  do  set  down. 

Enter  the  two  Witnesses. 

Now,  my  good  friends,  you  know  I  saved  your  lives, 
When  by  the  law  you  had  deserved  death ; 
And  then  you  promised  me,  upon  your  oaths, 
To  venture  both  your  lives  to  do  me  good. 

Both  Wit.  We  swore  no  more  than  that  we  will 
perform. 

Gar.  I  take  your  words  ;  and  that  which  you  must 
Is  service  for  your  God  and  for  your  king :  [do, 

To  root  a  rebel  from  this  flourishing  land  — 
One  that's  an  enemy  unto  the  church ; 
And  therefore  must  you  take  your  solemn  oaths 
That  you  heard  Cromwell,  the  lord  chancellor,3 

3  Cromwell  was  never  lord  chancellor.  It  is  with  equal 
impropriety  that  he  is  called  lord  keeper  in  a  previous 
scene,  and  represented  with  the  mace  borne  before  him.  It 
is  by  confounding  the  great  and  privy  seal  that  the  dramatist 
fell  into  his  error.  The  charge  brought  against  him  by  the 
bishop  of  wishing  a  dagger  in  the  king's  heart,  is  pure  inven- 
tion. Gardiner  was  his  enemy,  and  contributed  to  his  down- 
fall, but  he  was  neither  the  only  nor  the  principal  enemy. 
Cromwell's  ruin  was  due  to  several  causes — the  jealousy  of 


82 


LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  THOMAS  LORD  CROMWELL. 


Did  wish  a  dagger  at  King  Henry's  heart : 
Fear  not  to  swear  it,  for  I  heard  him  speak  it ; 
Therefore  will  shield  you  from  ensuing  harms. 

Both  Wit.  If  you  will  warrant  us  the  deed  is  good, 
We'll  undertake  it. 

Gar.  Kneel  down,  and  I  will  here  absolve  you  both. 
This  crucifix1  I  lay  upon  your  heads, 
And  sprinkle  holy  water  on  your  brows : 
The  deed  is  meritorious  that  you  do, 
And  by  it  shall  you  purchase  grace  from  Heaven. 

1  Wit.  Now,  sir,  we'll  undertake  it,  by  our  souls  ! 

2  Wit.  For  Cromwell  never  loved  one  of  our  sort. 
Gar.  I  know  he  hath  not ;  and,  for  both  of  yon, 

I  will  prefer  you  to  some  place  of  worth. 
Now  get  you  in,  until  1  call  for  you, 
For  presently  the  dukes  mean  to  be  here. 

[Exeunt  Witnesses. 

Cromwell,  sit  fast ;  thy  time's  not  long  to  reign : 
The  abbeys  that  were  pulled  down  by  thy  means, 
Are  now  a  mean  for  me  to  pull  thee  down  j 
Thy  pride  thy  own  head  also  lights  upon, 
For  thou  art  he  hath  changed  religion. 
But  now  no  more,  for  here  the  dukes  are  come. 

Enter  SUFFOLK,  NORFOLK,  and  the  Earl  of  BEDFORD. 

Suff.  Good-even  to  my  lord  bishop. 

Norf.  How  fares  my  lord  ?  what,  are  you  all  alone  ? 

Gar.  No,  not  alone,  my  lords ;  my  mind  is  troubled : 
I  know  your  honors  muse  wherefore  I  sent, 
And  in  such  haste.    What,  came  you  from  the  king  ? 

Norf.  We  did,  and  left  none  but  Lord  Cromwell 
with  him. 

Gar.  O,  what  a  dangerous  time  is  this  we  live  in  ! 
There's  Thomas  Wolsey — he's  already  gone  j 
And  Thomas  More  — he  followed  after  him ; 
Another  Thomas  yet  there  doth  remain, 
That  is  far  worse  than  either  of  those  twain  ; 
And  if  with  speed,  my  lords,  we  not  pursue  it, 
I  fear  the  king  and  all  the  land  will  rue  it. 

Bed.  Another  Thomas  ?  Pray  God,  it  be  not  Crom- 
well ! 

Gar.  My  lord  of  Bedford,  'tis  that  traitor  Crom- 
well. 

Bed.  Is  Cromwell  false  ?  My  heart  will  never  think 
it. 

Suff.  My  lord  of  Winchester,  what  likelihood, 
Or  proof,  have  you,  of  this  his  treachery  ? 

Gar.  My  lord,  too  much.    Call  in  the  men  within. 

Enter  the  Witnesses. 

These  men,  my  lord,  upon  their  oaths  affirm 
That  they  did  hear  Lord  Cromwell,  in  his  garden, 
Wishing  a  dagger  sticking  at  the  heart 
Of  our  King  Henry ;  —  what  is  this  but  treason? 

Bed.  If  it  be  so.  my  heart  doth  bleed  with  sorrow. 

Svff.  How  say  you,  friends  ?    What,  did  you  hear 
these  words  ? 

1  Wit.  We  did,  an't  like  your  grace. 

Norf.  In  what  place  was  Lord  Cromwell  when  he 
spake  them? 

the  nobility,  the  subversion  of  the  monasteries,  and  not  least, 
the  king's  aversion  to  Anne  of  Cleves,  and  his  desire  to  mar- 
ry Catherine  Howard,  niece  to  the  duke  of  Norfolk,  who 
was  Cromwell's  chief  assailant — Note  of  JIalone,  abridged. 

I  It  is  supposed  that,  before  the  Reformation,  the  English 
bishops  wore  a  small  crucifix  hanging  to  their  outward  gar- 
ments, ai  in  popish  countries  the  bishops  do  at  this  day. 

MALONX. 


2  Wit.  In  his  garden,  where  we  did  attend  a  suit. 
Which  we  had  waited  for  two  years  and  more. 
Suff.  How  long  is't  since  you  heard  him  speak 

these  words  ? 

2  Wit.  Some  half  a  year  since. 
Bed.  How  chance  that  you  concealed  it  all  this 

time  ? 

1  Wit.  His  greatness  made  us  fear ;  that  was  the 

cause. 

Gar.  Ay,  ay,  his  greatness,  that's  the  cause  indeed : 
And  to  make  his  treason  here  more  manifest, 
He  calls  his  servants  to  him  round  about, 
Tells  them  of  Wolsey's  life,  and  of  his  fall: 
Says  that  himself  hath  many  enemies ; 
And  gives  to  some  of  them  a  park,  or  manor  ; 
To  others,  leases  ;  lands  to  other  some. 
What  need  he  do  this  in  his  prime  of  life, 
An  if  he  were  not  fearful  of  his  death  ? 

Suff.  My  lord,  these  likelihoods  are  very  great. 

Bed.  Pardon  me,  lords,  for  I  must  needs  depart ; 
Their  proofs  are  great,  but  greater  is  my  heart. 

[Exit  BEDFORD. 

Norf.  My  friends,  take  heed  of  that  which  you 

have  said : 

Your  souls  must  answer  what  your  tongues  report : 
Therefore,  take  heed ;  be  wary  what  you  do. 

2  Wit.  My  lord,  we  speak  no  more  but  truth, 
Norf.  Let  them  depart,3  my  lord  of  Winchester ; 

Let  these  men  be  close  kept, 
Until  the  day  of  trial. 

Gar.  They  shall,  my  lord.    Ho  !  take  in  these  two 
men.  [Exeunt  Witnesses,  &c. 

My  lords,  if  Cromwell  have  a  public  trial, 
That  which  we  do  is  void  by  his  denial : 
You  know  the  king  will  credit  none  but  him. 

Norf.  'Tis  true ;   he  rules  the  king  even  as  he 
pleases. 

Suff.  How  shall  we  do  for  to  attach  him,  then  ? 

Gar.  Marry,  thus,  my  lord ;  by  an  act  he  made 

himself, 

With  an  intent  to  entrap  some  of  our  lives  — 
And  this  it  is :  If  any  counsellor 
Be  convicted  of  high-treason,  he  shall 
Be  executed  without  public  trial. 
This  act,  my  lords,  he  caused  the  king  to  make. 

Suff.  He  did,  indeed,  and  I  remember  it ; 
And  now  'tis  like  to  fall  upon  himself. 

Norf.  Let  us  not  slack  it ;  'tis  for  England's  good ; 
We  must  be  wary,  else  he'll  go  beyond  us ! 

Gar.  Well  hath  your  grace  said,  my  good  lord  of 
Therefore  let  us  to  Lambeth  presently :       [Norfolk, 
Thither  comes  Cromwell  from  the  court  to-night : 
Let  us  arrest  him,  send  him  to  the  Tower, 
And,  in  the  morn,  cut  off  the  traitor's  head. 

Norf.  Come,  then,  about  it ;  let  us  guard  the  town  ; 
This  is  the  day  that  Cromwell  must  go  down. 

Gar.  Along,  my  lords.    Well,  Cromwell  is  half 

dead: 
He  shook  my  heart,  but  I  will  shear  his  head  ! 

[Exeunt. 

3  "Let  them  depart,"  in  one  breath,  and  "let  them  be 
kept,"  in  another,  denotes  a  gross  corruption  of  the  passage. 
"  Set  them  apart,"  would  be  the  probable  reading,  were  it 
not  that  Norfolk  has  no  motive  or  desire  to  purge  their  tes- 
timony.   Perhaps  the  true  reading  should  be — 

"  Let  them  be  kept,  my  lord  of  Winchester, 
Close,  till  the  day  of  trial" 


ACT  V.  — SCENE  III. 


83 


ACT   V. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Street  in  London. 
Enter  BEDFORD. 

Bed.  My  soul  is  like  a  water  [greatly]  troubled ; 
And  Gardiner  is  the  man  that  makes  it  so. 
O,  Cromwell,  I  do  fear  thy  end  is  near  ! 
Yet  I'll  prevent  their  malice  if  I  can  : 
And,  in  good  time,  see  where  the  man  doth  come, 
Who  little  knows  how  near's  his  day  of  doom. 

Enter  CROMWELL  with  his  train  ;  BEDFORD  makes  as 
though  he  would  speak  to  him  ;  CROMWELL  goes  on. 

Crom.  You're  well  encountered,  my  good  lord  of 

Bedford : 

I  see  your  honor  is  addressed  to  talk :  — 
Pray,  pardon  me  ;  I  am  sent  for  to  the  king, 
And  do  not  know  the  business  yet  myself:  — 
So  fare  you  well,  for  I  must  needs  be  gone. 

[Exit  CROMWELL,  fyc. 

Bed.  [Be  gone]  you  must ;  well,  what  [the]  reme- 
I  fear  too  soon  you  must  be  gone  indeed.  [dy  ? 

The  king  hath  business  ;  — little  dost  thou  know 
Who's  busy  for  thy  life :  thou  think'st  not  so. 

Re-enter  CROMWELL,  attended. 

Crom.  The  second  time  well  met,  my  lord  of  Bed- 
I  am  very  sorry  that  my  haste  is  such  ;  [ford : 

Lord  Marquis  Dorset  being  sick  to  death, 
I  must  receive  of  him  the  privy  seal. 
At  Lambeth,  soon,  my  lord,  we'll  take  our  fill. 

[Exit. 

Bed.  How  smooth  and  easy  is  the  way  to  death ! 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Mess.  My  lord,  the  dukes  of  Norfolk  and  of  Suffolk, 
Accompanied  with  the  bishop  of  Winchester, 
Entreat  you  to  come  presently  to  Lambeth, 
On  earnest  matters  that  concern  the  state. 

Bed.  To  Lambeth  !  so :  go  fetch  me  pen  and  ink ; 
I  and  Lord  Cromwell  there  shall  talk  enough : 
Ay,  and  our  last,  I  fear,  an  if  he  come.          {Writes. 
Here,  take  this  letter — bear  it  to  Lord  Cromwell : 
Bid  him  to  read  it ;  say't  concerns  him  near ; 
Away  !  begone  !  make  all  the  haste  you  can. 
To  Lambeth  do  I  go,  a  woful  man.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Street  near  the  Thames. 
Enter  CROMWELL,  attended. 

Crom.  Is  the  barge  ready  ?  I  will  straight  to  Lam- 
beth; 

And,  if  this  one  day's  business  once  were  past, 
I'd  take  my  ease  to-morrow,  after  trouble. 

Enter  Messenger. 

How  now,  my  friend,  what,  wouldst  thou  speak  with 

me? 

Mess.  Sir,  here's  a  letter  from  my  lord  of  Bedford. 
[Messenger  gives  letter.    CROMWELL 

puts  it  in  his  pocket. 

Crom.  0  good,  my  friend,  commend  me  to  thy  lord : 
Hold,  take  these  angels ;  drink  them  for  thy  pains. 


Mess.  He  doth  desire  your  grace  to  read  it  [straight] , 
Because  he  says  it  doth  concern  you  near. 

Crom.  Bid  him  assure  himself  of  that:  farewell; 
To-morrow,  tell  him,  he  shall  hear  from  me.  — 
Set  on  before  there,  and  away  to  Lambeth. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  Lambeth. 

Enter  GARDINER,  SUFFOLK,  NORFOLK,  BEDFORD,  Lieu- 
tenant of  the  Tower.  Sergeant-at-arms,  Herald,  and 
Halberdiers. 

Gar.  Halberts,  stand  close  unto  the  water-side, 
Sergeant-at-arms,  be  you  bold  in  your  office ; 
Herald,  deliver  [now]  your  proclamation. 

Her.  This  is  to  give  notice  to  all  the  king's  subjects, 
the  late  Lord  Cromwell,  lord  chancellor  of  England, 
vicar-general  over  the  realm,  him  to  hold  and  esteem 
as  a  traitor,  against  the  crown  and  dignity  of  England. 
So,  God  save  the  king  ! 

Gar.  Amen. 

Bed.  Amen,  and  [may  God]  root  thee  from  the  land, 
For,  whilst  thou  livest,  the  truth  can  never  stand. 

Nor.  Make  a  lane  there,  the  traitor  is  at  hand. 
Keep  back  Cromwell's  men  : 
Drown  them  if  they  come  on.    Sergeant,  your  office  ! 

Enter  CROMWELL,  attended.    The  Halberdiers  make  a 
lane. 

Crom.  What  means  my  lord  of  Norfolk  by  these 
Sirs,  come  along.  [words  ? 

Gar.  Kill  them,  if  they  come  on. 

Ser.  Lord  Thomas  Cromwell,  in  King  Henry's 
I  do  arrest  your  honor  of  high  treason.  [name, 

Crom.  Sergeant,  me  of  treason ! 

[CROMWELL'S  Men  offer  to  draw. 

Suff.  Kill  them,  if  they  draw  a  sword. 

Crom.  Hold,  I  charge  you, 

As  you  love  me,  [friends,]  draw  not  a  sword, 
Who  dares  accuse  Cromwell  of  treason  now  ? 

Gar.  This  is  no  place  to  reckon  up  your  crime, 
Your  dove-like  looks  were  viewed  with  serpent's  eyes. 

Crom.  With  serpent's  eyes,  indeed,  if  1  thine  they 
But,  Gardiner,  do  thy  worst ;  I  fear  thee  not.   [were. 
My  faith  compared  with  thine,  as  much  shall  pass, 
As  doth  the  diamond  [still]  excel  the  glass : 
Attached  of  treason,  no  accusers  by, 
Indeed !  what  tongue  dares  speak  so  foul  a  lie  ? 

Norf.  My  lord,  my  lord,  matters  are  too  well  known, 
And  it  is  time  the  king  had  note  thereof. 

Crom.  The  king,  let  me  go  to  him,  face  to  face, 
No  better  trial  I  desire  than  that. 
Let  him  but  say  that  Cromwell's  faith  was  feigned, 
Then  let  my  honor,  and  my  name  be  stained ; 
If  e'er  my  heart  against  the  king  was  set, 
0  let  my  soul  in  judgment  answer  it ! 
Then,  if  my  faith's  confirmed  with  his  reason, 
'Gainst  whom  hath  Cromwell  then  committed  treason  ? 

Suff.  My  lord,  your  matter  shall  be  [quickly]  tried, 
Meantime,  with  patience  [pray]  content  yourself. 

Crom.  Perforce,  I  must  with  patience  be  content: 
O,  dear  friend  Bedford,  dost  thou  stand  so  near  ? 
Cromwell  rejoiceth,  one  friend  sheds  a  tear  : 
And  whither  is't  ?    Which  way  must  Cromwell  now  1 

1  "  By  thine,"  in  former  copies. 


84 


LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  THOMAS  LORD  CROMWELL. 


Gar.  My  lord,  you  must  unto  the  Tower :  lieutenant, 
Take  him  into  your  charge. 

Crom.  Well,  where  you  please  ;  but  yet,  before  I 
Let  me  confer  a  little  with  my  men.  tP31'; 

Gar.  Ay,  as  you  go  by  water,  so  you  shall. 
Crom.  I  have  some  business  present  to  impart. 
Norf.  You  may  not  stay :  lieutenant,  take  your 

charge. 

Crom.  Well,  well,  my  lord,  you  second  Gardiner's 

Norfolk,  farewell !  thy  turn  will  be  the  next.      [text. 

[Exeunt  CROMWELL  and  the  Lieutenant. 

Gar.   His  guilty  conscience  makes  him  rave,  my 

lord. 

Norf.  Ay,  let  him  talk  ;  his  time  is  short  enough. 
Gar.  My  lord  of  Bedford,  come  ;  you  weep  for  him, 
That  would  not  shed  a  [single]  tear  for  you. 
Bed.  It  grieves  me  for  to  see  his  sudden  fall 
Gar.  Such  success  wish  I  unto  traitors  all. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  IV.-London.    A  Street. 

Enter  two  Citizens. 

1  Cit.  Why  ?  can  this  news  be  true  ?  is't  possible  ? 
The  great  Lord  Cromwell  'rested  for  high  treason, 

I  hardly  will  believe  it  can  be  so. 

2  Cit.  It  is  too  true,  sir ;  would't  were  otherwise, 
Condition  I  spent  half  the  wealth  I  have. 

I  was  at  Lambeth,  saw  him  there  arrested, 
And  afterward  committed  to  the  Tower. 

1  Cit.  What,  was't  for  treason  that  he  was  commit- 

ted? 

2  Cit.  Kind  noble  gentleman  !    I  may  rue  the  time : 
All  that  I  have,  I  did  enjoy  by  him  ; 

And,  if  he  die,  then  all  rny  state  is  gone. 

1  Cit.  It  may  be  hoped,  sir,  that  he  shall  not  die, 
Because  the  king  did  favor  him  so  much. 

2  Cit.  0,  sir,  you  are  deceived  in  thinking  so : 
The  grace  and  favor  he  had  with  the  king, 
Hath  caused  him  have  so  many  enemies : 

He  that  in  court  secure  will  keep  himself, 
Must  not  be  great,  for  then  he  is  envied  at. 
The  shrub  is  safe,  when  as  the  cedar  shakes ; 
For  where  the  king  doth  love  above  compare, 
Of  others,  they  as  much  more  envied  are. 

1  Cit.  'Tis  pity  that  this  nobleman  should  fall, 
He  did  so  many  charitable  deeds. 

2  Cit.  'Tis  true  ;  and  yet  you  see,  in  each"  estate, 
There's  none  so  good,  but  some  one  doth  him  hate  ; 
And  they  before  would  smile  him  in  the  face, 
Will  be  the  foremost  to  do  him  disgrace. 

What,  will  you  go  along  unto  the  court  ? 

1  Cit.  I  care  not  if  I  do,  and  hear  the  news, 
How  men  will  judge  what  shall  become  of  him. 

2  Cit.  Some  men  will  speak  him  hardly,  some  will 
Go  you  to  the  court ?     I'll  go  into  the  city:       [pity- 
There  I  am  sure  to  hear  more  news  than  you. 

1  Cit.  Why  then  we  soon  will  meet  again.    Adieu. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.— A  Room  in  the  Tower. 
Enter  CKOMWELL. 

Crom.  Now,  Cromwell,  hast  thoutime  to  meditate 
And  think  upon  thy  state,  and  of  the  time. 
Thy  honors  came  unsought,  ay,  and  unlocked  for ; 
Thy  fall  is  sudden,  and  unlocked  for,  too. 
WTiat  glory  was  in  England  that  I  had  not  ? 


Who  in  this  land  commanded  more  than  Cromwell  ? 
Except  the  king,  who  greater  than  myself? 
But  now  I  see,  what  after-ages  shall, 
More  great  the  men,  more  sudden  is  their  fall. 
And  now  I  dc  remember,  th'  earl  of  Bedford 
Was  very  desirous  for  to  speak  to  me  ; 
And  afterward  sent  unto  me  a  letter, 
The  which  I  think  I  still  have  in  my  pocket ; 
Now  may  I  read  it,  for  I  now  have  leisure, 
And  this,  I  take't,  it  is.  [He  reads  the  letter 

My  lord,  come  not  this  night  to  Lambeth, 
For  if  you  do,  your  state  is  overthrown  ; 
And  much  I  doubt  your  life,  an  if  you  come : 
Then,  if  you  love  yourself,  stay  where  you  are. 
O  God,  had  I  but  read  this  [friendly]  letter, 
Then  had  I  been  free  from  the  lion's  paw: 
Deferring  this  to  read  until  to-morrow, 
[  spurned  at  joy,  and  did  embrace  my  sorrow. 

Enter  the  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  Officers,  4-c. 

Master  lieutenant,  when's  this  day  of  death? 

Lieu.  Alas,  my  lord,  would  I  might  never  see  it ! 
Here  are  the  dukes  of  Suffolk  and  of  Norfolk. 
Winchester,  Bedford,  and  Sir  Richard  Radcliff, 
With  others  still;  — but  why  they  come  I  know  not. 

Crom.  No  matter  wherefore  ;  Cromwell  is  prepared, 
For  Gardiner  has  my  life  and  state  ensnared. 
Bid  them  come  in,  or  you  shall  do  them  wrong, 
For  here  stands  he,  who  some  think,  lives  too  long  j  — 
Learning  kills  learning,  and,  instead  of  ink 
To  dip  his  pen,  Cromwell's  heart-blood  doth  drink. 

Enter  the  Dukes  of  SUFFOLK  and  NORFOLK  ;  the  Earl 
of  BEDFORD,  GARDINER,  Bishop  of  WINCHESTER, 
Sir  RICHARD  RADCLIFF,  and  Sir  RALPH  SADLER. 

Norf.  Good-morrow,  Cromwell.    What,  so  sad  ? 

Crom.  One  good  among  you,  none  of  you  are  bad : 
For  my  part,  it  best  fits  me  be  alone  ; 
Sadness  with  me,  not  I  with  any  one. 
Have  you  the  king  acquainted  with  my  cause  ? 

Norf.   We  have,  and  he  hath  answered  us,  my  lord. 

Crom.  How  shall  I  come  to  speak  with  him  myself? 

Gar.  The  king  is  so  advertised  of  your  guilt, 
He'll  by  no  means  admit  you  to  his  presence. 

Crom.  No  way  admit  me  !  am  I  so  soon  forgot  ? 
Did  he  but  yesterday  embrace  my  neck, 
And  say  that  Cromwell  was  even  half  himself? 
And  are  his  princely  ears  so  much  bewitched 
With  scandalous  ignominy,  and  slanderous  speeches, 
That  now  he  doth  deny  to  look  on  me  ? 
Well,  lord  of  Winchester,  no  doubt  but  you 
Are  much  in  favor  with  his  majesty, 
Will  bear  a  letter  from  me  to  his  grace  ? 

Gar.  Pardon  me,  I'll  bear  no  triitor's  letters. 

Crom.  Ha,  will  you  do  this  kindness  then,  to  tell 

him, 
By  word  of  mouth,  what  I  shall  say  to  you  ? 

Gar.  That  will  I. 

Crom.  But,  on  your  honor  will  you  ? 

Gar.  Ay,  on  my  honor. 

Crom.  Bear  witness,  lords. — 
Tell  him,  when  he  hath  known  you, 
And  tried  your  faith  but  half  so  much  as  mine, 
He'll  find  you  to  be  the  falsest-hearted  man 
[Living]  in  England  :  pray  [you]  tell  him  this. 

Bed.  Be  patient,  good  my  lord,  in  these  extremities 


ACT  V.— SCENE  V. 


85 


Crom.  My  kind  and  honorable  lord  of  Bedford, 
I  know  your  honor  always  loved  me  well : 
But,  pardon  me,  this  still  shall  be  my  theme  ; 
Gardiner's  the  cause  makes  Cromwell's  so  extreme. 
Sir  Ralph  Sadler,  I  pray  a  word  with  you  ; 
You  were  my  man,  and  all  that  you  possess 
Came  by  my  means :  sir,  to  requite  all  this, 
Say,  will  you  take  this  letter  here  of  me, 
And  give  it  with  your  own  hands  to  the  king  ? 

ISad.  I  kiss  your  hand,  and  never  will  I  rest, 
Ere  to  the  king  this  be  delivered.          [Exit  SADLER. 

Crom.  Why  then  hath  Cromwell  yet  one  friend  in 
store. 

Card.  But  all  the  haste  he  makes  shall  be  but  vain  ; 
Here's  a  discharge,  sir,  for  your  prisoner, 
To  see  him  executed  presently  : 
My  lord,  you  hear  the  tenure  of  your  life. 

Crom.  I  do  embrace  it ;  welcome  my  last  date, 
And  of  this  glistering  world  I  take  last  leave ; 
And,  noble  lords,  I  take  my  leave  of  you. 
As  willingly  I  go  to  meet  with  death, 
As  Gardiner  did  pronounce  it  with  his  breath  : 
From  treason  is  my  heart  as  white  as  snow, 
My  death  procured  only  by  my  foe  : 
I  pray  commend  me  to  my  sovereign  king, 
And  tell  him  in  what  sort  his  Cromwell  died, 
To  lose  his  head  before  his  cause  was  tried ; 
But  let  his  grace,  when  he  shall  hear  my  name, 
Say  only  this  ;  —  Gardiner  procured  the  same. 

Enter  young  CROMWELL. 

Litut.  Here  is  your  son,  sir,  come  to  take  his  leave. 

Crom,.  To  take  his  leave?    Come  hither,  Harry 

Cromwell ; 

Mark,  boy,  the  last  words  that  I  speak  to  thee ; 
Flatter  not  fortune,  neither  fawn  upon  her ; 
Gape  not  for  state,  yet  lose  no  spark  of  honor ; 
Ambition,  like  the  plague  see  thou  eschew  it  ; 
I  die  for  treason,  boy,  and  never  knew  it ; 
Yet,  let  thy  faith  as  spotless  be  as  mine, 
And  Cromwell's  virtues  in  thy  face  shall  shine  : 
Come,  go  along  and  see  me  leave  my  breath, 
And  I'll  leave  thee  upon  the  floor  of  death. 

Son.  O  father,  I  shall  die  to  see  that  wound, 
Your  blood  being  spilt  will  make  my  heart  to  swound. 

Crom.  How,  boy,  not  dare  to  look  upon  the  axe  ? 
How  shall  I  do  then,  to  have  my  head  struck  off? 
Come  on,  my  child,  and  see  the  end  of  all, 
And  after  say,  that  Gardiner  was  my  fall. 

Gar.  My  lord,  you  speak  it  of  an  envious  heart, 
I  have  done  no  more  than  law  and  equity. 


Bed.  O,  my  good  lord  of  Winchester,  foibear  ; 
'Twould  better  have  beseemed  you  to  be  absent, 
Than,  with  your  words,  disturb  a  dying  man. 

Cram.  Who,  me,  my  lord  ?  no  :  he  disturbs  not  me  ; 
My  mind  he  stirs  not,  though  his  mighty  shock 
Hath  brought  more  peers'  heads  down  unto  the  block. 
Farewell,  my  boy  ;  all  Cromwell  can  bequeath, 
My  hearty  blessing  !  —  so,  I  take  my  leave. 

Hang.  I  am  your  deathsman  ;  pray,  my  lord,  for- 
give me. 

Crom.  Even  with  my  soul !  why,  man,  thou  art  my 

doctor, 

Andbring'st  me  precious  physic  for  my  soul  ; 
My  lord  of  Bedford,  I  desire  of  you, 
Before  my  death,  a  corporal  embrace. 

[CROMWELL  embraces  him. 
Farewell,  great  lord  ;  my  lord,1  I  do  commend 
My  heart  to  you;  my  soul  to  heaven  I  send; 
This  is  my  joy,  that  ere  my  body  fleet, 
Your  honored  arms  are  my  true  winding-sheet ; 
Farewell,  dear  Bedford,  my  peace  is  made  in  heaven  ; 
Thus  falls  great  Cromwell,  a  poor  ell  in  length, 
To  rise    t'uomeasured    height,    winged    with  new 

strength. 

The  land  of  worms,2  which  dying  men  discover. 
My  soul  is  shrined  with  heaven's  celestial  cover. 

[Exeunt  CROMWELL,  Officers,  SfC. 

Bed.  Well,  farewell.    Cromwell!  sure  the   truest 
That  ever  Bedford  shall  possess  again  !  [friend 

Well,  lords.  I  fear  that  when  this  man  is  dead, 
You'll  wish  in  vain  that  Cromwell  had  a  head. 
Enter  Officer,  with  CROMWELL'S  Head. 

Offi.  Here  is  the  head  of  the  deceased  Cromwell. 
Bed.  Pray  thee  go  hence,  and  bear  his  head  away 
Unto  his  corse  ;  —  inter  them  both  in  clay. 

Enter  Sir  RALPH  SADLER. 
Sad.  How  now,  my  lords  ?  what,  is  Lord  Cromwell 

dead? 

Bed.  Lord  Cromwell's  body  now  doth  want  a  head. 
Sad.  O,  God  !  a  little  speed  hnd  saved  his  life. 
Here  is  a  kind  reprieve  come  from  the  king, 
To  bring  him  straight  unto  his  majesty. 

Suff.  Ay,  ay,  Sir  Ralph,  reprieves  come  now  too 

late. 

Gar.  My  conscience  tells  me  now  this  deed  was  ill ! 
Would  Christ  that  Cromwell  were  alive  again  ! 

Norf.  Come,  let  us  to  the  king,  who,  well  I  know, 
Will  grieve  for  Cromwell,  that  his  death  was  so. 

[Exeunt. 

I  Old  copy  reads,  "  my  love." 
*  This  passage  is  manifestly  corrupt 


THE  END  OF  THE  LIFE  ANT)  DEATH  OF  THOMAS  LORD  CROMWELL. 


INTRODUCTION 


TO 


SIR    JOHN    OLDCASTLE 


THE  history  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle  may  he  found 
in  Holingshead ;  but  the  author  of  the  drama  has  not 
heen  tenacious  of  his  facts.  He  has  used  them  at 
pleasure,  wherever  a  perversion  of  them  might  height- 
rn  the  interest  of  the  play,  or  bring  out  the  character 
of  his  hero  more  impressively.  The  play  before  us 
was  entered  on  the  stationer's  books,  on  the  4th  of 
August,  1600,  as  "  The  first  part  of  the  History  of 
the  Life  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle  —  Lord  Cobham  j"  the 
second  part,  "  with  his  martyrdom,"  was  entered  at 
the  same  time ;  but  this  was  never  published.  The 
first  part  was  entered  without  the  name  of  Shak- 
speare ;  but  of  two  editions  printed  in  1600,  one  of 
them  bears  the  name  of  William  Shakspeare  at  full 
length,  in  the  titlepage,  with  the  addition:  "as  it 
hath  beene  lately  acted  by  the  Right  Honorable  the 
Earle  of  Nottingham,  Lord  High  Admiral  of  England, 
his  Servants."  Mr.  Knight  remarks,  of  this  fact : 
"  In  1594,  a  play  of  Shakspeare's  might  have  been 
acted  as  we  believe  Hamlet  was,  at  Henslowe's  the- 


atre, which  was  that  of  the  lord  high  admiral  his 
servants  ;  but  in  1600,  a  play  of  Shakspeare's  would 
have  unquestionably  been  acted  by  the  lord  cham- 
berlain his  servants."  This  is  not  conclusive.  The 
interest  of  Shakspeare,  in  1600,  undoubtedly  lay  in 
the  latter  theatre ;  but  a  former  play  might  have  be- 
come the  property  of  the  manager  of  another  house, 
at  a  time  when  Shakspeare  was  connected  with  nei- 
ther, and  thus  be  entirely  out  of  the  author's  posses- 
sion and  control,  as  well  to  revise,  rewrite,  or  en- 
tirely suppress.  Recently,  however,  we  find  by  the 
Diary  of  Ph.  Henslowe,  lately  published  by  the 
Shakspeare  Society,  that,  on  the  16th  of  October, 
1599,  he  paid  "  for  the  first  part  of  the  Lyfe  of  Sir 
Ihon  Oldcastle,  and  in  earnest  of  the  second  Pte., 
for  the  use  of  the  company,  ten  pound ;"  and  the 
money  was  received  by  "  Thomas  Downton,"  "  to  pay 
Mr.  Monday,  Mr.  Drayton,  Mr.  Wilson,  and  Mr. 
Hathaway."  This  might  be  considered  conclusive> 
were  it  not  that  nothing  was  more  frequent  than  the 


88 


INTRODUCTION. 


production,  at  rival  theatres,  of  pieces  on  the  same 
subjects,  particularly  at  the  same  time,  and  when  the 
successful  run  of  one  piece  provoked  the  cupidity  of 
managers  to  desire  a  share  in  the  profits  accruing 
largely  to  their  neighbors.  The  very  employment 
of  no  less  than  four  hands,  in  the  preparation  of  this 
play,  would  seem  to  declare  some  present  emergency. 
Mr.  Knight  speaks  of  it  '*  as  a  very  curious  example 
of  the  imperfect  manner  in  which  it  was  attempted 
to  imitate  the  excellence,  and  to  rival  the  popularity, 
of  Shakspeare's  best  historical  plays,  at  the  time  of 
their  original  production."  Certainly,  there  are  sev- 
eral respects  in  which  Sir  John  Oldcastle  reminds  us 
of  Shakspeare.  The  character  of  Sir  John  of  Wro- 
tham,  the  priest,  is  just  such  an  instance  of  resem- 
blance, as  a  feebler  or  a  younger  writer  would  attempt, 
at  the  character  of  Falstaff,  who  desired  at  the  same 
time  to  escape  the  charge  of  imitation. 

The  prologue  has  been  relied  upon  to  prove  that 
Shakspeare  had  no  agency  in  the  piece,  since  it  is 
supposed  in  two  of  the  lines  to  reflect  unfavorably 
upon  his  own  labors  : — 

"  It  is  no  pampered  glutton  we  present, 
Nor  aged  counsellor  to  youthful  sin." 

Offence  seems  to  have  been  taken  at  the  character 
of  Falstaff,  who,  it  appears,  had  been  confounded  with 
Sir  John  Oldcastle.  The  employment  of  this  name, 
openly,  at  the  head  of  a  new  piece,  might  have  occa- 
sioned some  doubts  as  to  the  character  in  which  that 
historical  personage  would  be  shown ;  and  the  lan- 
guage of  the  prologue  was  intended  to  disarm  all  ap- 
prehensions. 

11  Let  fair  truth  be  graced" — 
is  the  entreaty  of  the  dramatist  — 

"  Since  forged  invention  former  time  defaced." 

This  is  construed  into  a  sarcasm  upon  Shakspeare's 
labors  in  Falstaff,  and  is  supposed  to  be  conclusive 
against  his  share  in  the  production.  If  a  sarcasm,  it 
is  a  very  gentle  one.  Shakspeare  himself  judges  of 
Falstaff,  through  Henry  V.  and  the  Chief  Justice, 
much  more  severely,  and  in  much  the  same  language. 
Were  we,  indeed,  disposed  to  make  out  a  case,  we 
might  insist  upon  this  prologue  as  really  apologetic, 
and  assume  that  the  play  was  chiefly  written  to  atone 
for  the  supposed  wrong  done  by  the  author  of  Sir 
John  Falstaff,  to  the  historical  reputation  of  Sir  John 
Oldcastle.  But  we  take  no  interest  in  the  question. 
It  may  be  well  to  mention,  that  the  opinion  is  held 
by  some  that  the  Sir  John  Falstaff  of  Shakspeare's 
Henry  IV.  was  originally  called  Sir  John  Oldcastle. 
The  character  and  name,  indeed,  seem  to  have  been 
employed  frequently  by  the  dramatists.  In  the  old 
play  of  "  The  Famous  Victories,"  according  to  Mr. 
Knight,  the  character  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle  occurs 
as  a  low  and  ruffianly  sort  of  person.  Fuller,  in  his 
Church  History,  has  something  directly  on  this  sub- 
ject. «  Stage  poets,"  quoth  he,  "  have  themselves 
been  very  bold  with,  and  others  very  merry  at,  the 
memory  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle,  whom  they  have  fan- 
cied a  boon  companion,  a  jovial  royster,  and  a  cow- 
ard  to  boot.  The  best  is,  Sir  John  Falstaff  hath  re- 
lieved the  memory  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle,  and  of  late 
is  substituted  buffoon  in  his  place."  This  description 


of  Fuller  would  seem  especially  to  describe  our  own 
Sir  John  of  Shakspeare  memory.  Mr.  Knight  adds : 
"  Whether  or  not  Shakspeare's  Falstaff  was  origin- 
ally called  Oldcastle,  he  was,  after  the  character  was 
fairly  established  as  Falstaff,  anxious  to  vindicate 
himself  from  the  charge  that  he  had  attempted  to 
represent  the  Oldcastle  of  history.  In  the  epilogue 
to  the  Second  Part  of  Henry  IV.,  we  find  this  pas- 
sage :  "  For  anything  I  know,  Falstaff  shall  die  of  a 
sweat,  unless  already  he  be  killed  with  your  hard 
opinions  ;  for  Oldcastle  died  a  martyr,  and  this  is  not 
the  man."  This  would  show  a  consciousness  of  some 
necessity  to  apologize  and  atone  for  the  past  —  pre- 
cisely some  such  feeling  us  would  prompt  the  Ian 
guage  of  the  prologue  to  Sir  John  Oldcastle ;  —  which 
is  very  well  written,  and  in  that  frank  and  manly  style 
which  distinguishes  the  poetry  of  Shakspeare,  when 
he  contemplates  nothing  beyond  the  actual  and  di- 
rect : — 

fcThe  doubtful  title,  gentlemen,  prefixed 
Upon  the  argument  we  have  in  hand, 
May  breed  suspense,  and  wrongfully  disturb 
The  peaceful  quiet  of  your  settled  thoughts  : 
To  stop  which  scruple,  let  this  hrief  suffice : 
It  it  no  pampered  glutton  we  present, 
Nor  aged  counsellor  to  youthful  sin, 
But  one,"  &c. : 

"Let  fair  truth  be  graced, 
Since  forged  invention  former  time  defaced." 

11  The  mode,"  says  Mr.  Knight,  "  in  which  some 
of  the  German  critics  have  spoken  of  this  play,  is 
a  rebuke  to  dogmatic  assertions  and  criticism." 
We  have  shown,  elsewhere,  what  Schlegel  says  con- 
cerning these  biographical  dramas  ;  —  how  he  de- 
scribes Sir  John  Oldcastle,  Thomas  Lord  Cromwell, 
and  the  Yorkshire  Tragedy —  putting  them  all  in  the 
same  category  —  as  not  only  unquestionably  Shak- 
speare's, but  the  best  of  his  works,  and  models  of 
their  species.  Teick  is  equally  confident  in  assigning 
the  authorship  of  the  play  before  us  to  Shakspeare. 
Ulrici,  on  the  contrary,  takes  a  more  sober  view  of  the 
matter.  He  says :  "  The  whole  betrays  a  poet  who 
endeavored  to  form  himself  on  Shakspeare's  model  — 
nay,  even  to  imitate  him  —  but  who  stood  far  below 
him  in  mind  and  talent." 

Schlegel's  criticism  seems  wholly  valueless  in  re- 
gard to  these  plays.  There  is,  for  example,  a  mon- 
strous inequality  between  the  play  of  Cromwell  and 
Oldcastle.  To  class  them  together,  as  equally  mod- 
els, and  either  as  worthy  to  be  ranked  among  the 
best  of  Shakspeare's  plays,  is  sheer  absurdity. 

But  Sir  John  Oldcastle  is  a  performance  of  very 
considerable  merit.  The  poetry  is  sometimes  forci- 
cible  and  fine,  if  not  rich  and  generous.  It  lacks  the 
glow,  the  fire,  and  invention,  of  Shakspeare,  when 
on  the  whig,  but  possesses  his  frankness,  impulse,  and 
transparency.  When  Ulrici  speaks  of  the  unknown 
author  of  this  play  as  imitating  Shakspeare,  or  mod- 
elling himself  upon  him,  he  probably  confounds  two 
things,  in  their  nature  very  different.  It  appears  to 
me  that,  while  the  author  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle  has 
appropriated  certain  of  Shakspeare's  materials,  some 
two  or  more  of  his  characters,  and  some  of  his  inci- 
dents, he  has,  neither  in  the  plan  of  his  story,  nor  in 
the  structure  of  his  verse,  imitated  any  writer.  His 


INTRODUCTION. 


89 


style  of  expression  seems  to  be  that  of  a  practised 
writer,  confident  in  his  own  mode  of  utterance,  and 
never  pausing  to  pick  and  choose  his  phrase  in  regard 
to  any  model.  Remark,  for  instance,  the  prologue, 
where  we  see  an  instance  of  ease  and  freedom  in  the 
verse,  such  as  prevails  in  all  the  better  portions  of 
this  play,  which  conclusively  show  the  habitual  wri- 
ter, and  one  totally  unaffected  and  unconstrained  in 
the  manner  of  delivering  himself.  If  Shakspeare 
did  not  write  this  play  —  and  we  attempt  only  to 
furnish  the  reader  with  the  facts  in  relation  to  the 
question,  and  not  to  provide  a  comment  upon  them  — 
there  are  certain  portions  of  it  which  are  quite  wor- 
thy of  his  pen.  Take,  for  example,  the  manner  in 
which  the  conspirators  attempt  to  inveigle  Lord  Cob- 
ham  into  their  confederacy.  The  allegory  here  is 
well  sustained,  and  very  forcibly  given : — 

"  Cam.  Nay,  but  the  stag  which  we  desire  to  strike, 
Lives  not  in  Cowling :  if  you  will  consent, 
And  go  with  us,  we'll  bring  you  to  a  forest 
Where  runs  a  lusty  herd ;  among  the  which 
There  is  a  stag  superior  to  the  rest; 
A  stately  beast,  that,  when  his  fellows  run, 
He  leads  the  race,  and  beats  the  sullen  earth, 
As  though  he  scorned  it,  with  his  trampling  hoofs ; 
Aloft  he  bears  his  head,  and  with  his  breast, 
Like  a  a  huge  bulwark,  counterchecks  the  wind : 
And,  when  he  standeth  still,  he  stretcheth  forth 
His  proud  ambitious  neck,  as  if  he  meant 
To  wound  the  firmament  with  forked  horns. 

Cob.  'Tis  pity  such  a  goodly  beast  should  die. 

Cam.  Not  so,  Sir  John ;  for  he  is  tyrannous, 
And  gores  the  other  deer,  and  will  not  keep 
Within  the  limits  are  appointed  him. 
Of  late  he's  broke  into  a  several, 
Which  doth  belong  to  me,  and  there  he  spoils 
Both  corn  and  pasture.    Two  of  hia  wild  race, 
Alike  for  stealth  and  covetous  encroaching, 
Already  are  removed :  if  he  were  dead, 
I  should  not  only  be  secure  from  hurt, 
But  with  his  body  make  a  royal  feast" 


It  is  objected  to  the  morality  of  this  part  of  the 
play,  that  Cobham  should  betray  those  who  had 
confided  their  conspiracy  to  him.  I  am  somewhat 
doubtful  whether  this  censure  is  deserved.  What 
was  Cobham  to  do  ?  The  friend  of  the  king,  a  con- 
spiracy  is  forced  upon  him,  of  which  he  disapproves, 
which  contemplates  the  king's  murder.  Is  he  to 
suffer  it  to  go  forward  to  completion  of  its  objects  ? 
Surely  not.  If  he  had  sought  out  the  conspirators 
for  their  secret,  and  under  false  guises  had  obtained 
it,  then  to  betray  them  would  have  been  criminal ; 
but  this  was  not  the  case.  They  thrust  themselves 
upon  him,  assuming  that  he  sympathizes  with  them, 
and  the  safety  of  the  king  compels  the  course  which 
he  adopts. 

As  a  play,  Sir  John  Oldcastle  lacks  unity.  It  is 
desultory,  and  the  purposes  of  the  several  characters 
do  not  work  together.  The  several  performances  of 
the  parties  do  not  contemplate  the  denouement.  The 
separate  scenes  are  lively  —  some  of  them  very  im- 
pressive —  and  more  than  one  of  the  persons  of  the 
drama  are  exceedingly  well  conceived.  Sir  John  of 
Wrotham,  who  is  meant  to  be  a  Falstaff,  with  the 
additional  virtue  of  courage,  might  have  been  suc- 
cessful, but  that  Falstaff  stood  hi  his  way.  Whether 
drawn  by  Shakspeare  or  another,  the  character  of 
Sir  John  of  Wrotham  fails  only  as  it  reminds  us  that 
we  have  known  Falstaff.  It  was  this  knowledge 
that  paralyzed  the  effort  to  repaint  the  character 
under  another  name,  and  with  additional  attributes. 
Our  "  sweet  Jack  Falstaff,"  "  kind  Jack  Falstaff," 
"  true  Jack  Falstaff,"  "  valiant  and  plump  Jack  Fal- 
staff," is  already  sufficiently  perfect ;  and  an  accumu- 
lation of  more  virtues  in  his  character  might  only 
withdraw  him  in  some  degree  from  our  sympathies. 
Sir  John  of  Wrotham  is  a  failure  ;  but  we  see  what 
he  might  have  been,  but  for  the  overwhelming  excel- 
lence of  his  predecessor. 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE. 

PART  FIRST, 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. 

Sir  JOHN  OLDCASTLE,  Lord  COBHAM. 

Lord  HERBERT. 

Lord  Powis. 

The.  DUKE  OF  SUFFOLK. 

The  EARL  OF  HUNTINGTON. 


Conspirators  against  the 
king. 


Rebels. 


The  EARL  OF  CAMBRIDGE, 

Lord  SCROOP, 

Sir  THOMAS  GREY, 

Sir  ROGER  ACTON, 

Sir  RICHARD  LEE, 

Master  BOURN, 

Master  BEVERLEY, 

MURLEY,  theBrewei-  o/Dunstable, 

The  BISHOP  OF  ROCHESTER. 

Two  Judges  of  Assize. 

Lord-  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

Master  BUTLER,  Gentleman  of  the  Privy  Chamber. 

CHARTRES,  the  French  Agent. 

CROMER,  Sheriff  of  Kent. 

The  Mayor  of  Hereford. 

The  Sheriff  of  Hereford  shire. 

Sir  JOHN,  the  Parson  of  Wrotham. 

Lieutenant  of  the  Tower. 

The  Mayor  and  Gaoler  of  St.  Alban's. 

A  Kentish  Constable  and  an  Ale-man. 

DICK  and  TOM,  Servants  to  Murley. 

An  Irishman. 

HARPOOL,  Servant  to  the  Lord  Cobham. 

GOUGH,  Servant  to  Lord  Herbert. 

OWEN  and  DAVY,  Servants  to  Lord  Powis. 

CLUN,  Sumner  to  the  Bishop  of  Rochester. 

Lady  COBHAM. 

Lady  Powis. 

DOLL,  Concubine  to  Sir  John,  Parson  of  Wrotham. 

KATE,  the  Carrier's  Daughter. 

Host,  Ostler,  Carriers,  Soldiers,  Beggarmen,  Constables, 
Warders  of  the  Tower,  Bailiffs,  Messengers,  and 
Attendants. 

SCENE.  —  ENGLAND. 


PROLOGUE. 

The  doubtful  title,  gentlemen,  prefixed 
Upon  the  argument  we  have  in  hand, 


May  breed  suspence,  and  wrongfully  disturb 
The  peaceful  quiet  of  your  settled  thoughts. 
To  stop  which  scruple,  let  this  brief  suffice  ; 
It  is  no  pampered  glutton  we  present, 
Nor  age"d  counsellor  to  youthful  sin ; 
But  one,  whose  virtues  shine,  above  the  rest, 
A  valiant  martyr,  and  a  virtuous  peer ; 
In  whose  true  faith  and  loyalty  expressed 
Unto  his  sovereign,  and  his  country's  weal, 
We  strive  to  pay  that  tribute  of  our  love 
Your  favors  merit.    Let  fair  truth  be  graced, 
Since  forged  invention  former  time  defaced. 

ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Street  in  Hereford. 
Enter  Lord  HERBERT,  Lord  Powis,  OWEN,  GOUGH, 

DAVY,  and  others,  followers  of  the  Lords  Powis  and 

HERBERT.    They  fight.    Enter  the  Sheriff  of  Here- 

ford  shire  and  a  Bailiff. 

Sher.  My  lords,  I  charge  you  in  his  highness'  name, 
To  keep  the  peace,  you  and  your  followers. 

Herb.  Good  master  sheriff,  look  unto  yourself. 

Pow.  Do  so,  for  we  have  other  business. 

[They  attempt  to  fight  again. 

Sher.  Will  ye  disturb  the  judges,  and  the  assize  1 
Hear  the  king's  proclamation ;  —  ye  were  best. 

Pow.  Hold,  then ;  let's  hear  it. 

Herb.  But  be  brief,  be  brief ! 

Bail.  0 — yes. 

Davy.  Cossone,  make  shorter  0,  or  shall  mar  your 
yes. 

Bail.  0 — yes. 

Owen.  What,  has  hur  nothing  to  say  but,  0  yes  ? 

Bail.  0 — yes. 

Davy.  0  nay ;  py  coss  plut,  down  with  hur,  down 
with  hur.    A  Powis !  a  Powis ! 

Cough.  A  Herbert !  a  Herbert !  and  down  with 
Powis!  [They  fight  again. 

Sher.  Hold !  in  the  king's  name,  hold  ! 

Owen.  Down  with  a  knave's  name,  down. 

[The  Bailiff  is  knocked  down,  and 
the  Sheriff  runs  away. 

Herb.  Powis,  I  think  thy  Welsh  and  thou  do  smart. 

Pow.  Herbert,  I  think  my  sword  came  near  thy 
heart. 

Herb.  Thy  heart's  best  blood  shall  pay  the  loss  of 
mine. 

Gough.  A  Herbert !  a  Herbert ! 

Davy.  A  Powis  !  a  Powis  ! 


92 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE. 


As  they  are  fighting,  enter  the  Mayor  of  Hereford,  Aw 
Officers  and  Townsmen,  with  Clubs. 

Mayor.  My  lords,  as  you  are  liegemen  to  the  crown, 
True  noblemen,  and  subjects  to  the  king, 
Attend  his  highness'  proclamation, 
Commanded  by  the  judges  of  assize, 
For  keeping  peace  at  this  assembly. 

Herb.  Good  master  mayor  of  Hereford,  be  brief. 

Mayor.  Sergeant,  without  the  ceremonies  of  "  0 

yes," 
Pronounce  aloud  the  proclamation. 

Sfrg.  The  king's  justices,  perceiving  what  public 
mischief  may  ensue  this  private  quarrel,  in  his  majes- 
ty's name  do  straightly  charge  and  command  all  per- 
sons, of  what  degree  soever,  to  depart  this  city  of 
Hereford,  except  such  as  are  bound  to  give  attendance 
at  this  assize,. and  that  no  man  presume  to  wear  any 
weapon,  especially  welsh-hooks,  forest-bills. 

Owen.  Haw  ?  No  pill  nor  Wells  hoog  ?  ha  ? 

Mayor.  Peace,  and  hear  the  proclamation. 

Serg.  And  that  the  lord  Powis  do  presently  disperse 
and  discharge  his  retinue,  and  depart  the  city  in  the 
king's  peace,  he  and  his  followers,  on  pain  of  impris- 
onment. 

Davy.  Haw?  pud  hur  lord  Powis  in  prison?  A 
Powis  !  A  Powis  !  Cossone,  hur  will  live  and  tie 
with  hur  lord. 

Cough.  A  Herbert  !  a  Herbert ! 
They  fight  ;  Lord  HERBERT  is  wounded,  and  falls  to  the 

ground  ;  the  Mayor  and  his  followers  interpose.  Lord 

Powis  runs  away.   Enter  two  Judges,  the  Sheriff  and 

his  Bailiffs  before  them. 

1  Judge.  Where's  the  lord  Herbert  ?    Is  he  hurt  or 

slain  ? 
Sher.  He's  here,  my  lord. 

2  Judge.  How  fares  his  lordship,  friends  ? 
Gough.  Mortally  wounded,  speechless  ;  he  can  not 

live. 

1  Judge.  Convey  him  hence,  let  not  his  wounds  take 
And  get  them1  dressed  with  expedition.  [air, 

[Exeunt  Lord  HERBERT  and  GOUGH. 
Master  mayor  of  Hereford,  master  sh'riff  o'the  shire, 
Commit  Lord  Powis  to  safe  custody, 
To  answer  the  disturbance  of  the  peace, 
Lord  Herbert's  peril,  and  his  high  contempt 
Of  us,  and  you,  the  king's  commissioners :  — 
See  it  be  done  with  care  and  diligence. 

Sher.  Please  it  your  lordship,  my  lord  Powis  is  gone, 
Past  all  recovery. 

2  Judge.  Yet,  let  search  be  made, 
To  apprehend  his  followers  that  are  left. 

Sher.  Here  are  some  of  them,  sirs ;  lay  hold  of 

them. 
Owen.  Of  us  ?  and  why  ?  what  has  hut  done,  I  pray 

you? 

Sher.  Disarm  them,  bailiffs. 
Mayor.  Officers,  assist. 

Davy.  Hear  you,  lord  shudge,  what  resson  for  this  ? 
Owen.  Cossone,  pe'puse  for  fighting  for  our  lord? 
1  Judge.  Away  with  them. 
Davy.  Harg  you,  my  lord. 
Owen.  Gough,  my  lord  Herbert's  man's  a  scurvy* 

knave. 

1  Previous  copies  read  "  get  Mm  dressed." 
«  I  substitute  here  one  epithet  for  another,  to  avoid  a  mere 
brutality. 


Davy.  I'se  live  and  tie  in  good  quarrel. 

Owen.  Pray  you  do  shustice,  let  awl  be  prison. 

Davy.  Prison,  no ! 
Lord  shudge,  I  wool  give  you  pale,  good  surety. 

2  Judge.  What  bail  ?  what  sureties  ? 

Davy.  Hur  cozen  ap  Rice,  ap  Evan,  ap  Morice,  ap 
Morgan,  ap  Llwellyn,  ap  Madoc,  ap  Meredith,  ap 
Griffin,  ap  Davy,  ap  Owen,  ap  Shinken  Shones. 

2  Judge.  Two  of  the  most  sufficient  are  enow. 

Sher.  An't  please  your  lordship,  these  are  all  but  one. 

1  Judge.  To  jail  with  them,  and  the  Lord  Herbert's 

men. 
We'll  talk  with  them,  when  the  assize  is  done. 

[Exeunt  Bailiffs  with  OWEN,  DAVY,  4-c. 
Riotous,  audacious,  and  unruly  grooms, 
Must  we  be  forced  to  come  from  [off]  the  bench, 
To  quiet  brawls,  which  every  constable 
In  other  civil  places  can  suppress  ? 

2  Judge.  What  was  the  quarrel  that  caused  all  this 

stir? 

Sher.  About  religion,  as  I  heard,  my  lord; — 
Lord  Powis  detracted  from  the  power  of  Rome, 
Affirming  Wickliffe's  doctrine  to  be  true, 
And  Rome's  erroneous  :  hot  reply  was  made 
By  the  lord  Herbert,  —  they  were  traitors  all 
That  would  maintain  it.    Powis  answered  ;  — 
They  were  as  true,  as  noble,  and  as  wise, 
As  he,  —  and  would  defend  it  with  their  lives  ! 
He  named,  for  instance,  Sir  John  Oldcastle, 
The  lord  Cobham :  Herbert  replied  again, — 
He,  thou,  and  all,  are  traitors  that  so  hold. 
The  lie  was  given,  the  several  factions  drawn, 
And  so  enraged,  that  we  could  not  appease  it. 

1  Judge.  This  case  concerns  the  king's  prerogative 
'Tis  dangerous  to  the  state  and  commonwealth. 
Gentlemen,  justices,  master  mayor,  and  sheriff, 

It  doth  behoove  us  all,  and  each  of  us, 

In  general  and  particular,  to  have  care 

For  the  suppressing  of  all  mutinies, 

And  all  assemblies,  except  soldiers'  musters, 

For  the  king's  preparation  unto  France. 

We  hear  of  secret  conventicles  made, 

And  there  is  doubt  of  some  conspiracies, 

Which  may  break  out  into  rebellious  arms 

When  the  king's  gone  —  perchance  before  he  go. 

Note,  as  an  instance,  this  one  perilous  fray  : 

What  factions  might  have  grown  on  either  part, 

To  the  destruction  of  the  king  and  realm  ! 

Yet,  in  my  conscience,  Sir  John  Oldcastle  is 

Innocent  of  it ;  only  his  name  was  used. 

We,  therefore,  from  his  highness,  give  this  charge  : 

You,  master  mayor,  look  to  your  citizens  ; 

You,  master  sheriff,  unto  your  shire  ;  and  you, 

As  justices,  in  every  one's  precinct, 

There  be  no  meetings ;  —  when  the  vulgar  sort 

Sit  on  their  ale-bench,  with  their  cups  and  cans, 

Matters  of  state  be  not  their  common  talk, 

Nor  pure  religion  by  their  lips  profaned. 

Let  us  return  unto  the  bench  again, 

And  there  examine  further  of  this  fray. 

Enter  a  Bailiff  and  a  Sergeant. 

Sher.  Sirs,  have  ye  taken  the  lord  Powis  yet  ? 

Bail.  No,  nor  heard  of  him. 

Serg.  He's  gone  far  enough. 

2  Judge.  They  that  are  left  behind  shall  answer  all. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  L— SCENE  II. 


93 


SCENE  II.— Eltham.   An  Antechamber  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  the  Duke  of  SUFFOLK,  Bishop  of  ROCHESTER, 
BUTLER,  and  Sir  JOHN  of  Wrotham. 

Stiff.  Now,  my  lord  Bishop,  take  free  liberty 
To  speak  your  mind  :  what  is  your  suit  to  us  ? 

Bish.  My  noble  lord,  no  more  than  what  you  know, 
And  have  been  oftentimes  invested  with. 
Grievous  complaints  have  passed  between  the  lips 
Of  envious  persons  to  upbraid  the  clergy : 
Some  carping  at  the  livings  which  we  have  ; 
And  others  spurning  at  the  ceremonies 
That  are  of  ancient  custom  in  the  church ;  — 
Among  the  which,  Lord  Cobham  is  a  chief. 
What  inconvenience  may  proceed  hereof, 
Both  to  the  king  and  to  the  commonwealth, 
May  easily  be  discerned,  when,  like  a  phrensy, 
This  innovation  shall  possess  their  minds. 
These  upstarts  will  have  followers  to  uphold 
Their  damned  opinion,  more  than  Harry  shall, 
To  undergo  his  quarrel  'gainst  the  French. 

Suff.  What  proof  is  there  against  them  to  be  had, 
That  what  you  say  the  law  may  justify  ? 

Bish,  They  give  themselves  the  names  of  protest- 
And  meet  in  fields  and  solitary  groves.  [ants, 

Sir  John.  Was  ever  heard,  my  lord,  the  like  till 

now, 

That  thieves  and  rebels  — 'sblood  !  that  heretics  — 
Plain  heretics,  I'll  stand  to't  to  their  teeth  — 
Should  have,  to  color  their  vile  practices, 
A  title  of  such  worth  as  protestant  ? 

Enter  Messenger  to  the  Duke  of  SUFFOLK,  with  a  Let- 
ter. 

Suff.  O,  but  you  must  not  swear :  it  ill  becomes 
One  of  your  coat,  to  rap  out  bloody  oaths. 

Bish.  Pardon  him,  good  my  lord ;  it  is  his  zeal— 
An  honest  country  prelate,  who  laments 
To  see  such  foul  disorders  in  the  church. 

Sir  John.  There's  one  —  they  call  him  Sir  John 

Oldcastle  — 

He  has  not  his  name  for  naught ;  for,  like  a  castle, 
Doth  he  encompass  them  within  his  walls: 
But,  till  that  castle  be  subverted  quite, 
We  ne'er  shall  be  at  quiet  in  the  realm. 

Bish.  This  is  our  suit,  my  lord,  that  he  be  ta'en 
And  brought  in  question  for  his  heresy : 
Besides,  two  letters,  brought  me  out  of  Wales, 
Wherein  my  lord  of  Hereford  writes  to  me 
What  tumult  and  sedition  was  begun, 
'Bout  the  Lord  Cobham,  at  the  'sizes  there  ; 
For  they  had  much  ado  to  calm  the  rage  — 
And  that  the  valiant  Herbert  there  is  slain. 

Suff.  A  fire  that  must  be  quenched.    Well,  say  no 
The  king  anon  goes  to  the  council-chamber,    [more  ; 
There  to  debate  of  matters  touching  France. 
As  he  doth  pass,  I  will  inform  his  grace 
Concerning  your  petition.    Master  Butler, 
If  I  forget,  do  you  remember  me. 

But.  I  will,  my  lord. 

Bish.  [Offers  the  Duke  a  purse].  Not  as  a  recom- 
But  as  a  token  of  our  love  to  you,  [pense, 

By  me,  my  lord,  the  clergy  doth  present 
This  purse,  and  in  it  full  a  thousand  angels, 
Praying  your  lordship  to  accept  their  gift. 

Suff.  I  thank  them,  my  lord  bishop,  for  their  love, 


But  will  not  take  their  money ;  —  if  you  please 
To  give  it  to  this  gentleman,  you  may. 

Bish.  Sir,  then  we  crave  your  furtherance  herein. 

But.  The  best  I  can,  my  lord  of  Rochester. 

Bish.  Nay,  pray  you  take  itj  trust  me,  sir,  you 
shall. 

Sir  John.  Were  ye  all  three  upon  Newmarket  heath, 
You  should  not  need  strain  court'sy  who  should  have 
Sir  John  would  quickly  rid  ye  of  that  care.  [it : 

[Aside. 

Suff.  The  king  is  coming.    Fear  ye  not,  my  lord ; 
The  very  first  thing  I  will  break  with  him 
Shall  be  about  your  matter. 

Enter  King  HENRY  and  the  Earl  of  HUNTINGTON. 

K.  Hen.  My  lord  of  Suffolk, 

Was  it  not  said  the  clergy  did  refuse 
To  lend  us  money  toward  our  wars  in  France  ? 

Suff.  It  was,  my  lord,  but  very  wrongfully. 

K.  Hen.  I  know  it  was  ;  for  Huntington  here  tells 
They  have  been  very  bountiful  of  late.  [me 

Suff.  And  still  they  vow,  my  gracious  lord,  to  be  so, 
Hoping  your  majesty  will  think  on  them 
As  of  your  loving  subjects,  and  suppress 
All  such  malicious  errors  as  begin 
To  spot  their  calling,  and  disturb  the  church. 

K.  Hen.  God  else  forbid  !  Why,  Suffolk,  is  there, 
Any  new  rupture  to  disquiet  them  ?  [then], 

Suff.  No  new,  my  lord ;  the  old  is  great  enough, 
And  so  increasing,  as,  if  not  cut  down, 
Will  breed  a  scandal  to  your  royal  state, 
And  set  your  kingdom  quickly  in  an  uproar. 
The  Kentish  knight,  Lord  Cobham,  in  despite 
Of  any  law,  or  spiritual  discipline, 
Maintains  this  upstart  new  religion  still ; 
And  divers  great  assemblies,  by  his  means, 
And  private  quarrels,  are  commenced  abroad, 
As,  by  this  letter,  more  at  large,  my  liege, 
Is  made  apparent. 

K.  Hen.  We  do  find  it  here  — 

There  was  in  Wales  a  certain  fray  of  late 
Between  two  noblemen.    But  what  of  this  ? 
Follows  it  straight  Lord  Cobham  must  be  he 
Did  cause  the  same  ?    I  dare  be  sworn,  good  knight, 
He  never  dreamed  of  any  such  contention. 

Bish.  But  in  his  name  the  quarrel  did  begin, 
About  the  opinion  which  he  held,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.  What  if  it  did  ?    Was  either  he  in  place 
To  take  part  with  them,  or  abet  them  in  it  ? 
If  brabbling  fellows,  whose  enkindled  blood 
Seeths  in  their  fiery  veins,  will  needs  go  fight, 
Making  their  quarrels  of  some  words  that  passed 
Either  of  you,  or  yours,  among  your  cups, 
Is  the  fault  yours  ?  or  are  ye  guilty  of  it  ? 

Suff.  With  pardon  of  your  highness,  my  dread  lord 
Such  little  sparks  neglected,  may,  in  time, 
Grow  to  a  mighty  flame.     But  that's  not  all : 
He  doth  besides  maintain  a  strange  religion, 
And  will  not  be  compelled  to  come  to  mass. 

Bish.  We  do  beseech  you,  therefore,  gracious  prince, 
Without  offence  unto  your  majesty, 
We  may  be  bold  to  use  authority. 

K.  Hen.  As  how  ? 

Bish.  To  summon  him  to  the  arches,1  [sire], 
Where  such  offences  have  their  punishment. 

1  The  court  of  Arches,  to  called  because  it  was  anciently 
held  in  the  church  of  St.  Mary  le  Bow,  Sancta  Maria  de  Ar- 
cubus. — MALONE. 


94 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE. 


K.  Hen.    To  answer  personally  ?  — is  that  your 
meaning? 

Bish.  It  is,  my  lord. 

K.  Hen.  How,  if  he  appeal  ? 

Bish.  My  lord,  he  can  not  in  such  case  as  this. 

Suff.  Not  where  religion  is  the  plea,  my  lord. 

K.  Hen.  I  took  it  always  that  ourself  stood  on't 
As  a  sufficient  refuge  ;  unto  whom 
Not  any  but  might  lawfully  appeal : 
But  we'll  not  argue  now  upon  that  point. 
For  Sir  John  Oldcastle,  whom  you  do  accuse, 
Let  me  entreat  you  to  dispense  a  while 
With  your  high  title  of  pre-eminence. 
Report  did  never  yet  condemn  him  so, 
But  he  hath  always  been  reputed  loyal ; 
And,  in  my  knowledge,  I  can  say  thus  much, 
That  he  is  virtuous,  wise,  and  honorable. 
If  any  way  his  conscience  be  seduced 
To  waver  in  his  faith,  I'll  send  for  him, 
And  school  him  privately.    If  that  serve  not, 
Then,  afterward,  you  may  proceed  against  him. 
Butler,  be  you  the  messenger  for  us, 
And  will  him  presently  repair  to  court. 

[Exeunt  King  HENRY,  HUNTINGTOH, 
SUFFOLK,  and  BOTLER. 

Sir  John.  How  now,  my  lord  ?  why  stand  you  dis- 
content ? 
In  sooth,  methinks  the  king  hath  well  decreed. 

Bish.  Ay,  ay,  Sir  John,  if  he  would  keep  his  word : 
But  I  perceive  he  favors  bun  so  much, 
As  this  will  be  to  small  effect,  I  fear. 

Sir  John.  Why,  then,  I'll  tell  you  what  you're  best 

to  do: 

If  you  suspect  the  king  will  be  but  cold 
In  reprehending,  send  your  process  too 
To  serve  upon  him ;  so  you  may  be  sure 
To  make  him  answer  it,  howsoe'er  it  fall. 

Bish.  And  well  remembered ;  I  will  have  it  so : 
A  sumner1  shall  be  sent  about  it  straight.          [Exit. 

Sir  John.  Yea,  do  so.    In  the  mean  space  this  re- 
mains, 

For  kind  Sir  John  of  Wrotham,  honest  Jack. 
Methinks  the  purse  of  gold  the  bishop  gave 
Made  a  good  show ;  it  had  a  tempting  look: 
Beshrew  me,  but  my  fingers'  ends  do  itch 
To  be  upon  those  golden  ruddocks.    Well !  — 
I  am  not  what  the  world  doth  take  me  for : 
If  ever  wolf  were  clothed  in  sheep's  coat, 
Then  I  am  he  ;  —  old  huddle  and  twang  i'faith ; 
A  priest  in  show,  but  in  plain  terms  a  thief: 
Yet,  let  me  tell  you  too,  an  honest  thief; 
One  that  will  take  it  where  it  may  be  spared, 
And  spend  it  freely  in  good  fellowship. 
I  have  as  many  shapes  as  Proteus  had, 
That  still,  when  any  villany  is  done, 
There  may  be  none  suspect  it  was  Sir  John. 
Besides,  to  comfort  me—  for  what's  this  life, 
Except  the  crabbed  bitterness  thereof 
Be  sweetened  now  and  then  with  lechery  ?  — 
I  have  my  Doll,  my  concubine,  as  'twere, 
To  frolic  with  — a  lusty,  bouncing  girl ! 
But,  whilst  I  loiter  here,  the  gold  may  'scape, 
And  that  must  not  be  so :  it  is  mine  own ;  — 
Therefore,  I'll  meet  him  on  his  way  to  court, 
And  shrive  him  of  it ;  there  will  be  the  sport.  [Exit. 

1  A  tumntr  was  an  apparitor— in  plain,  a  twnmontr  of 
persona  to  appear  in  the  spiritual  court 


SCENE  III.  — Kent.  An  outer  Court  before  Lord 
COBHAM'S  House.  A  public  Road  leading  to  it,  and 
an  Alehouse  at  a  little  distance. 

Enter  four  poor  People,  some  Soldiers,  some  old  Men. 

1  Sold.  God  help  !  God  help  !  there's  law  for  pun- 

ishing, 

But  there's  no  law  for  our  necessity  : 
There  be  more  stocks  to  set  poor  soldiers  in, 
Than  there  be  houses  to  relieve  them  at. 
Old  Man.  Ay,  housekeeping  now  decays  in  every 

place, 
Even  as  Saint  Peter  writ,  stUl  worse  and  worse. 

2  Old  Man.  Master  mayor  of  Rochester  has  given 
command  that  none  shall  go  abroad  out  of  the  parish ; 
and  has  set  down  an  order,  forsooth,  of  what  every 
poor  householder  must  give  for  our  relief:  where  there 
be  some  'sessed —  I  may  say  to  you  —  had  almost  as 
much  need  to  beg  as  we. 

1  Old  Man.  It  is  a  hard  world  the  while. 

2  Old  Man.  If  a  poor  man  ask  at  door  for  God's 
sake,  they  ask  him  for  a  license  or  a  certificate  from 
a  justice. 

1  Sold.  Faith,  we  have  none,  but  what  we  bear  up- 
on our  bodies  —  our  maimed  limbs  —  God  help  us  ! 

2  Sold.  And  yet,  as  lame  as  I  am,  I'll  with  the  king 
into  France,  if  I  can  but  crawl  o'  shipboard.    I  had 
rather  be  slain  in  France  than  starve  in  England. 

1  Old  Man.  Ha,  were  I  but  as  lusty  as  I  was  at 
Shrewsbury  battle,  I  would  not  do  as  I  do  :  but  we 
are  now  come  to  the  good  Lord  Cobham's,  the  best 
man  to  the  poor  in  all  Kent. 

2  Old  Man.  God  bless  him !  there  be  but  few  such. 

Enter  Lord  COBHAM  with  HARPOOL. 

Co&.  Thou  peevish,  froward  man,  what  wouldst 
thou  have  ? 

Har.  This  pride,  this  pride,  brings  all  to  beggary. 
I  served  your  father,  and  your  grandfather ;  — 
Show  me  such  two  men  now.    No,  no,  your  backs, 
Your  backs,  the  devil,  and  pride,  have  cut  the  throat 
Of  all  good  housekeeping  ;  they  were  the  best 
Yeomen's  masters  that  ever  were  in  England. 

Cob.  Yea,  except  thou  have  a  crew  of  filthy  knaves 
And  sturdy  rogues  still  feeding  at  my  gate, 
There  is  no  hospitality  with  thee. 

Har.  They  may  sit  at  the  gate  well  enough,  but 
the  devil  of  anything  you  give  them,  except  they'll 
eat  stones. 

Cob.  'Tis  'long,  then,  of  such  hungry  knaves  as  you : 
Here,  sir's,  your  retinue  ;  your  guests  be  come  : 
They  know  their  hours,  I  warrant  you. 

1  Old  Man.  God  bless  your  honor  !  God  save  the 
good  Lord  Cobham,  and  all  his  house  ! 

1  Sold.  Good  your  honor,  bestow  your  blessed  alms 
Upon  poor  men. 

Cob.  Now,  sir,  here  be  your  alms-knights  : 
Now  are  you  as  safe  as  the  emperor. 

Har.  My  alms-knights  ?    Nay,  they're  yours : 
It  is  a  shame  for  you,  and  I'll  stand  to't ; 
Your  foolish  alms  maintains  more  vagabonds 
Than  all  the  noblemen  in  Kent  beside. 
Out,  you  rogues  !  you  knaves,  work  for  your  livings. 
Alas!  poor  men,  they  may  beg  their  hearts  out  [here], 
There's  no  more  charity  among  [living]  men 
Than  among  so  many  mastiff-dogs.  [Aside. 


ACT  I.  — SCENE  III. 


95 


What  make  you  here,  you  needy  knaves  ?    Away ! 
Away,  you  villains  ? 

2  Sold.  Nay,  I  beseech  you,  sir,  be  good  to  us. 

Cob.  Nay,  nay, 

They  know  thee  well  enough  !  I  think  that  all 
The  beggars  in  this  land  are  thy  acquaintance  : 
Go,  bestow  your  alms ;  none  will  control  you,  sir. 

Har.  What  should  I  give  them  ?  You  are  grown  so 
beggarly,  that  you  can  scarce  give  a  bit  of  bread  at 
your  door.  You  talk  of  your  religion  so  long,  that 
you  have  banished  charity  from  you.  A  man  may 
make  a  flax-shop  in  your  kitchen-chimneys,  for  any 
fire  there  is  stirring. 

Cob.  If  thou  wilt  give  them  nothing,  send  them 

hence  : 
Let  them  not  stand  here  starving  in  the  cold. 

Har.  Who  ?  I  drive  them  hence  ?  If  I  drive  poor 
men  from  the  door,  I'll  be  hanged  !  I  know  not  what 
I  may  come  to  myself.  God  help  ye,  poor  knaves  ! 
ye  see  the  world.  Well,  you  had  a  mother  :  0,  God 
be  with  thee,  good  lady  !  thy  soul's  at  rest ;  she  gave 
more  in  shirts  and  smocks  to  poor  children,  than  you 
spend  in  your  house  ;  and  yet  you  live  a  beggar  too. 

Cob.  E'en  the  worst  deed  that  e'er  my  mother  did, 
Was  in  relieving  such  a  fool  as  thou. 

Har.  Ay,  I  am  a  fool  still ;  with  all  your  wit,  you'll 
die  a  beggar  ;  go  to  ! 

Cub.  Go,  you  old  fool,  give  the  poor  people  some- 
Go  in,  poor  men,  into  the  inner  court,  [thing. 
And  take  such  alms  as  there  is  to  be  had. 

Sold.  God  bless  your  honor  ! 

Har.  Hang  you,  rogues,  hang  you  !  there's  nothing 
but  misery  among  you  ;  you  fear  no  law,  you  !  [Exit. 

2  Old  Man.  God  bless  you,  good  Master  Ralph !  — 
God  save  your  life,  you  are  good  to  the  poor  still ! 

Enter  Lord  Powis,  disguised. 

Cob.  What  fellow  yonder  comes  along  the  grove  ? 
Few  passengers  there  be  that  know  this  way  : 
Methinks  he  stops  as  though  he  stayed  for  me, 
And  meant  to  shroud  himself  among  the  bushes. 
I  know  the  clergy  hate  me  to  the  death, 
And  my  religion  gets  me  many  foes  ; 
And  this  may  be  some  desperate  rogue,  suborned 
To  work  me  mischief:  as  it  pleaseth  God  ! 
If  he  come  toward  me,  sure  I'll  stay  his  coming, 
Be  he  but  one  man,  whatsoe'er  he  be. 

[Lord  Powis  advances. 
I  have  been  well  acquainted  with  that  face. 

Pow.  Well  met,  my  honorable  lord  and  friend. 

Cob.  You  are  very  welcome,  sir,  whoe'er  you  be  ; 
But  of  this  sudden,  sir,  I  do  not  know  you. 

Pow.  I  am  one  that  wisheth  well  unto  your  honor : 
My  name  is  Powis,  an  old  friend  of  yours. 

Cob.  My  honorable  lord  and  worthy  friend, 
What  makes  your  lordship  thus  alone  in  Kent, 
And  thus  disguised  in  this  strange  attire  ? 

Poic.  My  lord,  an  unexpected  accident 
Hath  at  this  time  enforced  me  to  these  parts, 
And  thus  it  happ'd :  Not  yet  full  five  days  since 
Now,  at  the  last  assize  at  Hereford, 
It  chanced  that  the  Lord  Herbert  and  myself, 
'Mong  other  things  discoursing  at  the  table, 
Did  fall  in  speech  about  some  certain  points 
Of  Wickliffe's  doWrine  'gainst  the  papacy, 
And  the  religion  catholic  maintained 
7 


Through  the  most  part  of  Europe  at  this  day. 

This  wilful,  testy  lord,  stuck  not  to  say 

That  Wicklifie  was  a  knave,  a  schismatic  — 

His  doctrine  devilish  and  heretical ; 

And  whatsoe'er  he  was  maintained  the  same, 

Was  traitor  both  to  God  and  to  his  country. 

Being  moved  at  his  peremptory  speech, 

I  told  him  some  maintained  those  opinions, 

Good  men,  and  truer  subjects  than  Lord  Herbert ; 

And  he,  replying  in  comparisons, 

Your  name  was  urged,  my  lord,  against  his  challenge 

To  be  a  perfect  favorer  of  the  truth. 

And,  to  be  short,  from  words  we  fell  to  blows, 

Our  servants  and  our  tenants  taking  parts  ; 

Many  on  both  sides  hurt :  and,  for  an  hour, 

The  broil  by  no  means  could  be  pacified, 

Until  the  judges,  rising  from  the  bench, 

Were,  in  their  persons,  forced  to  part  the  fray. 

Cob.  I  hope  no  man  was  violently  slain. 

Pow.  'Faith,  none,  I  trust,  but  the  Lord  Herbert's 
Who  is  in  truth  so  dangerously  hurt,  [self 

As  it  is  doubted  he  can  hardly  'scape. 

Cob.  I  am  sorry,  my  good  lord,  of  these  ill  news. 

Pow.  This  is  the  cause  that  drives  me  into  Kent, 
To  shroud  myself  with  you,  so  good  a  friend, 
Until  I  hear  how  things  do  speed  at  home. 

Cob.  Your  lordship  is  most  welcome  unto  Cobham : 
But  I  am  very  sorry,  my  good  lord, 
My  name  was  brought  in  question  in  this  matter, 
Considering  I  have  many  enemies, 
That  threaten  malice,  and  do  lie  in  wait 
To  take  the  'vantage  of  the  smallest  thing. 
But  you  are  welcome  to  repose  your  lordship, 
And  keep  yourself  here  secret  in  my  house, 
Until  we  hear  how  the  Lord  Herbert  speeds. 

Enter  HARPOOL. 

Here  comes  my  man.    Sirrah,  what  news  ? 

Har.  Yonder's  one  Master  Butler,  of  the  privy 
chamber,  is  sent  unto  you  from  the  king. 

Pow.  Pray  God  the  Lord  Herbert  be  not  dead  — 
And  the  king,  hearing  whither  I  am  gone, 
Hath  sent  for  me. 

Cob.  Comfort  yourself,  my  lord,  I  warrant  you. 

Har.  Fellow,  what  ails  thee  ?  Dost  thou  quake  ? 
dost  thou  shake  ?  Dost  thou  tremble  ?  ha  ? 

Cob.  Peace,  you  old  fool !  Sirrah,  convey  this  gen- 
tleman in  the  back  way,  and  bring  the  other  into  the 
walk. 

Har.  Come,  sir,  you're  welcome,  if  you  love  my 
lord. 

Pow.  Gramercy,  gentle  friend. 

[Exeunt  Powis  and  HARPOOL. 

Cob.  I  thought  as  much  —  that  it  would  not  be  long 
Before  I  heard  of  something  from  the  king 
About  this  matter. 

Enter  HARPOOL,  with  BUTLER. 

Har.  Sir,  yonder  my  lord  walks  :  you  see  him ; 
I'll  have  your  men  into  the  cellar  the  while. 

Cob.  Welcome,  good  Master  Butler. 

But.  Thanks,  my  good  lord.  His  majesty  doth 
commend  his  love  unto  your  lordship,  and  wills  you 
to  repair  unto  the  court. 

Cob.  God  bless  his  highness,  and  confound  his  ene- 
mies !  I  hope  his  majesty  is  well  ? 


96 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE. 


But.  In  good  health,  my  lord. 

Cob.  God  long  continue  it.    Methinks  you  look 
As  though  you  were  not  well :  what  ails  ye,  sir  i 

But.  'Faith,  1  have  had  a  foolish,  odd  mischance, 
That  angers  me.    Coming  o'er  Shooters'  hill, 
There  came  one  to  me  like  a  sailor,  and 
Asked  me  money  ;  and  whilst  I  stayed  my  horse, 
To  draw  my  purse,  he  takes  th'  advantage  of 
A  little  bank,  and  leaps  behind  me,  whips 
My  purse  away,  and  with  a  sudden  jerk, 
I  know  not  how,  threw  me  at  least  three  yards 
Out  of  my  saddle.    I  never  was  so  robbed 
In  all  my  life. 

Cob.  I  am  very  sorry,  sir,  for  your  mischance  ; 
We  will  send  our  warrant  forth  to  stay  all  such 
Suspicious  persons  as  shall  [here]  be  found : 
Then,  Master  Butler,  we'll  attend  on  you. 

But.  'I  humbly  thank  your  lordship  ;  I'll  await  you. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT   II. 

iJCENE  T.— The  same.    Before  Lord  COBHAM'S  House. 
Enter  a  Sumner. 

Sum.  I  have  the  law  to  warrant  what  I  do  ;  —  and 
though  the  Lord  Cobham  be  a  nobleman,  that  dis- 
penses not  with  law.  I  dare  serve  a  process  were  he 
.five  noblemen.  Though  we  sumners  make  sometimes 
a  mad  slip  in  a  corner  with  a  pretty  wench,  a  sumner 
must  not  go  always  by  seeing  j  a  man  may  be  content 
to  hide  his  eyes  where  he  may  feel  his  profit.  Well, 
this  is  Lord  Cobham's  house  :  if  I  can  not  speak  with 
him,  I'll  clap  iny  citation  upon  his  door  ;  so  my  lord 
of  Rochester  bade  me :  but  methinks  here  comes  one 
of  his  men. 

Enter  HARPOOI.. 

Har.  Welcome,  good  fellow,  welcome  :  who  wouldst 
thou  speak  with  ? 

Sum.  With  my  Lord  Cobham  I  would  speak,  if  thou 
be  one  of  his  men. 

Har.  Yes,  I  am  one  of  his  men,  but  thou  canst  not 
speak  with  my  lord. 

Sum.  May  I  send  to  him,  then  ? 

Har.  I'll  tell  thee  that,  when  I  know  thy  errand. 

Sum.  I  will  not  tell  my  errand  to  thee. 

Har.  Then  keep  it  to  thyself,  and  walk  like  a  knave, 
as  thou  earnest. 

Sum.  I  tell  thee,  my  lord  keeps  no  knaves,  sirrah  ! 

Har.  Then  thou  servest  him  not,  I  believe.  What 
lord  is  thy  master  ? 

Sum.  My  lord  of  Rochester. 

Har.  In  good  time  :  and  what  wouldst  thou  have 
with  my  Lord  Cobham  ? 

Sum.  I  come  by  virtue  of  a  process,  to  cite  him 
to  appear  before  my  lord  in  the  court  at  Rochester. 

Har.  [aside] .  Well,  God  grant  me  patience  !  I  could 
eat  this  counger.1  My  lord  is  not  at  home  ;  therefore 
it  were  good,  sumner,  you  carried  your  process  back. 

Sum.  Why,  if  he  will  not  be  spoken  withal,  then 

J  80  written  in  the  old  folio.  In  subsequent  editions, 
"conger."  The  reader  has  his  choice.  The  word  "coun- 
ger" seems  at  one  period  to  have  been  used  for  conjurer — 
it  was  to  conjure.  Harpool  may  be  supposed  to  sneer  at  the 
depth  and  mysteriousness  of  the  sumner.  "Conger"  was 
flie  sea-eel — and  might  very  well  apply  to  a  slippery  fellow. 
Either  word,  accordingly,  may  be  made  to  answer. 


will  I  leave  it  here  :  and  see  that  he  take  knowledge 
of  it.  [Fixes  the  citation  on  the  gate 

Har.  'Zounds  !  you  slave,  do  you  set  up  your  bills 
here  ?  go  to  ;  take  it  down  again.  Dost  thou  know 
what  thou  dost  ?  Dost  thou  know  on  whom  thou 
servest  a  process  ? 

Sum.  Yes,  marry  do  I :  on  Sir  John  Oldcastle,  Lord 
Cobham. 

Har.  I  am  glad  thou  knowest  him  yet.  And  sirrah, 
dost  not  know  that  the  Lord  Cobham  is  a  brave  lord, 
that  keeps  good  beef  and  beer  in  his  house,  and  every 
day  feeds  a  hundred  poor  people  at's  gate,  and  keeps 
a  hundred  tall  fellows  ? 

Sum.  What  that's  to  my  process  ? 

Har.  Marry,  this,  sir  :  is  this  process  parchment? 

Sum.  Yes,  marry,  is  it. 

Har.  And  this  seal  wax  ? 

Sum.  It  is  so. 

Har.  If  this  be  parchment,  and  this  wax,  eat  you 
this  parchment  and  this  wax,  or  I  will  make  parch- 
ment of  your  skin,  and  beat  your  brains  into  wax. 
Sirrah  sumner,  despatch,  devour,  sirrah,  devour  !'2 

Sum.  1  am  my  lord  of  Rochester's  sumner ;  I  came 
to  do  my  office,  and  thou  shall  answer  it. 

Har.  Sirrah,  no  railing  ;  but  betake  yourself  to  your 
teeth.  Thou  shalt  eat  no  worse  than  thou  bring'st 
with  thee.  Thou  bring'st  it  for  my  lord,  and  wilt 
thou  bring  my  lord  worse  than  thou  wilt  eat  thyself  ? 

Sum.  Sir,  I  brought  it  not  my  lord  to  eat. 

Har.  O,  do  you  sir  me  now  ?  All's  one  for  that ; 
I'll  make  you  eat  it,  for  bringing  it. 

Sum.  I  can  not  eat  it. 

Har.  Can  you  not  ?  'Sblood !  I'll  beat  you  till  you 
have  a  stomach.  [Beats  him. 

Sum.  Oh,  hold,  hold,  good  master  servingman  !  I 
will  eat  it. 

Har.  Be  champing,  be  chewing,  sir,  or  I'll  chew 
you,  you  rogue  !  Tough  wax  shows  the  purest  of  the 
honey. 

Sum.  Tough  wax  the  purest  honey !  0  Lord,  sir, 
oh!  oh!  [Eats. 

Har.  Feed,  feed  —  'tis  wholesome,  rogue,  whole- 
some. Can  not  you,  like  an  honest  sumner,  walk 
with  the  devil  your  brother,  to  fetch  in  your  bailiff's 
rents,  but  you  must  come  to  a  nobleman's  house  with 
process  ?  If  thy  seal  were  as  broad  as  the  lead  that 
covers  Rochester  church,  thou  shouldst  eat  it. 

Sum.  O,  I  am  almost  choked,  I  am  almost  choked ! 

Har.  Who's  within  there  ?  will  you  shame  my  lord  ( 
Is  there  no  beer  in  the  house  ?  Butler,  I  say ! 

Enter  Butler. 

But.  Here,  here. 

Har.  Give  him  beer.  There :  tough  old  sheepskin's 
bare  dry  meat  !  [Sumner  drinks. 

Sum.  0,  sir,  let  me  go  no  further :  I'll  eat  my  word. 

Har.  Yea,  marry,  sir,  I  mean  ye  shall  eat  more 
than  your  own  word  ;  for  I'll  make  you  eat  all  the 
words  in  the  process.  Why,  you  drabmonger,  can 
not  the  secrets  of  all  the  wenches  in  a  shire  serve 
your  turn,  but  you  must  come  hither  with  a  citation, 
with  a  pox?  I'll  cite  you. —  A  cup  of  sack  for  the 
sumner ! 

2  The  dramatist  owes  little  in  this  process  to  his  inven- 
tion. Nash,  one  of  the  early  dramatists,  telfs  us  that  he  saw 
Greene,  another  of  the  faculty,  "  make  an  apparitor  eat  hia 
citation,  wax  and  all,  very  handsomely  served  'twixt  two 
dishes,"  The  same  punishment  has  been  several  times  em- 
ployed since. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 


97 


But.  Here,  sir,  here. 

Har.  Here,  slave,  I  drink  to  thee. 

Sum.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Har.  Now,  if  thou  find'st  thy  stomach  well  — be- 
cause thou  shall  see  my  lord  keeps  meat  in's  house  — 
if  thou  wilt  go  in,  thou  shall  have  a  piece  of  beef  to 
thy  breakfast. 

Sum.  No,  I  am  very  well,  good  master  servingman ; 
I  thank  you,  very  well,  sir. 

Har.  I  am  glad  on't;  then  be  walking  toward 
Rochester,  to  keep  your  stomach  warm.  And,  sum- 
ner,  if  I  do  know  you  disturb  a  good  wench  within 
this  diocese,  if  I  do  not  make  thee  eat  her  petticoat, 
if  there  were  four  yards  of  Kentish  cloth  in't,  I  am  a 
villain. 

Sum.  God  be  wi'ye,  master  servingman. 

[Exit  Sumner. 

Har.  Farewell,  sumner. 

Enter  Constable. 

Con.  Save  you,  Master  Harpool. 

Har.  Welcome,  constable,  welcome,  constable  ;  — 
what  news  with  thee  ? 

Con.  An't  please  you,  Master  Harpool,  I  am  to 
make  hue  and  cry  for  a  fellow  with  one  eye,  that  has 
robbed  two  clothiers,  and  am  to  crave  your  hinderance 
to  search  all  suspected  places ;  and  they  say  there 
was  a  woman  in  the  company. 

Har.  Hast  thou  been  at  the  alehouse  ?  hast  thou 
sought  there  ? 

Co/i.  I  durst  not  search  in  my  Lord  Cobham's  lib- 
erty, except  I  had  some  of  his  servants  for  my  war- 
rant. 

Har.  An  honest  constable;  —  call  forth  him  that 
keeps  the  alehouse  there. 

Con.  Ho!  who's  within  there  ? 

Ale-Man.  Who  calls  there  ?  Oh,  is't  you,  master 
constable,  and  Master  Harpool  ?  You're  welcome 
with  all  my  heart.  What  make  you  here  so  early, 
this  morning  ? 

Har.  Sirrah,  what  strangers  do  you  lodge?  There 
is  a  robbery  done  this  morning,  and  we  are  to  search 
for  all  suspected  persons. 

Ale-Man.  God's-bore,  I  am  sorry  for't.  I'faith,sir, 
I  lodge  nobody  but  a  good,  honest  priest,  called  Sir 
John  o'  Wrotham,  and  a  handsome  woman  that  is  his 
niece,  that  he  says  he  has  some  suit  in  law  for ;  and 
as  they  go  up  and  down  to  London,  sometimes  they 
lie  at  my  house. 

Har.  What,  is  she  here  in  thy  house  now  ? 

Ale-Man.  She  is,  sir.  I  promise  you,  sir,  he  is  a 
quiet  man  ;  and  because  he  will  not  trouble  too  many 
rooms,  he  makes  the  woman  lie  every  night  at  his 
bed's  feet. 

Har.  Bring  her  forth,  constable,  bring  her  forth, 
let's  see  her,  let's  see  her. 

Ale-Man.  Dorothy,  you  must  come  down  to  master 
constable. 

Enter  DOROTHY. 

Doll.  Anon  forsooth. 

Har.  Welcome,  sweet  lass,  welcome. 

Doll.  1  thank  you,  good  sir,  and  master  constable 
also. 

Har.  A  plump  girl,  by  the  mass,  a  plump  girl !  ha, 
Doll,  ha.  Wilt  thou  forsake  the  priest,  and  go  with 
me,  Doll  ? 


Con.  Ah !  well  said,  Master  Harpool,  you  are  a 
merry  old  man,  i'faith ;  you  will  never  be  old.  Now, 
by  the  macke,1  a  pretty  wench,  indeed. 

Har.  You  old  mad,  merry  constable,  art  thou  ad- 
vised of  that  ?  Ha,  well  said,  Doll ;  fill  some  ale 
here. 

Doll,  [aside] .  Oh,  if  I  wist  this  old  priest  would  not 
stick  to  me,  by  Jove,  I  would  ingle2  this  old  serving- 
man. 

Har.  Oh,  you  old  mad  colt,  i'faith,  I'll  ferk  you : 
fill  all  the  pots  in  the  house  there. 

Con.  Oh  !  well  said,  Master  Harpool,  you  are  heart 
of  oak  when  all's  done. 

Har.  Ha,  Doll,  thou  hast  a  sweet  pair  of  lips,  by 
the  mass. 

Doll.  Truly,  you  are  a  most  sweet  old  man,  as  ever 
I  saw  ;  by  my  troth,  you  have  a  face  able  to  make 
any  woman  in  love  with  you. 

Har.  Fill,  sweet  Doll,  I'll  drink  to  thee. 

Doll.  I  pledge  you,  sir,  and  thank  you  therefore, 
and  I  pray  you  let  it  come. 

Har.  [embracing  her],  Doll,  canst  thou  love  me? 
a  mad,  merry  lass ;  would  to  God  I  had  never  seen 
thee. 

Doll.  I  warrant  you,  you  will  not  out  of  my  thoughts 
this  twelvemonth j  truly,  you  are  as  full  of  favor  as 
any  man  may  be.  Ah,  these  sweet  gray  locks  !  by 
my  troth,  they  are  most  loveiy. 

Con.  Cud's  bores,  Master  Harpool,  I'll  have  one 
buss,  too. 

Har.  No  licking  for  you,  constable ;  hands  off,  hands 
off. 

Con.  By'r  lady,  I  love  kissing  as  well  as  you. 

Doll.  Oh,  you  are  an  odd  boy ;  you  have  a  wanton 
eye  of  your  own :  ah,  you  sweet,  sugar-lipped  wanton, 
you  will  win  as  many  women's  hearts  as  come  in  your 
company. 

Enter  Sir  JOHN,  of  Wrotham. 

Sir  John.  Doll,  come  hither. 

Har.  Priest,  she  shall  not. 

Doll.  I'll  come  anon,  sweet  love. 

Sir  John.  Hands  off,  old  fornicator. 

Har.  Vicar,  I'll  sit  here  in  spite  of  thee.  Is  this 
stuff  for  a  priest  to  carry  up  and  down  with  him  ? 

Sir  John.  Sirrah,  dost  thou  not  know  that  a  good  fel- 
low parson  may  have  a  chapel  of  ease,  where  his  par- 
ish  church  is  far  off? 

Har.  You  whorson-stoned  vicar. 

Sir  John.  You  old  stale  ruffian,  you  lion  of  Cots- 
wold.3 

Har.  Zounds,  vicar,  I'll  geld  you.    [Flies  upon  him. 

Con.  Keep  the  king's  peace. 

Doll.  Murder,  murder,  murder ! 

Ale-Man.  Hold,  as  you  are  men,  hold !  for  God's 
sake,  be  quiet :  put  up  your  weapons ;  you  draw  not  in 
my  house. 

Har.  You  whorson  bawdy  priest. 

Sir  John.  You  old  mutton-monger. 

Con.  Hold,  Sir  John,  hold. 

Doll.  I  pray  thee,  sweet-heart,  be  quiet.  I  was  but 
sitting  to  drink  a  pot  of  ale  with  him,  even  as  kind  a 
man  as  ever  I  met  with. 

Har.  Thou  art  a  thief,  I  warrant  thee. 

1  Macke — an  ancient  game  at  cards. 

*  Ingle—  make  a  favorite  or  friend  of,  <fec. 

3  That  is,  "  you  Cotswoid  sheep." 


93 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE. 


Sit  John.  Then  I  am  but  as  thou  hast  been  in  thy 
days ;  let's  not  be  ashamed  of  our  trade  ;  the  king  has 
been  a  thief  himself. 

Doll.  Come,  be  quiet ;  hast  thou  sped  ? 

Sir  John.  I  have,  wench ;  there  be  crowns  i'faith. 

Doll.  Come,  let's  be  all  friends,  then. 

Con.  Well  said,  Mistress  Dorothy. 

Har.  Thou  art  the  maddest  priest  that  ever  I  met 
with. 

Sir  John.  Give  me  thy  hand  ;  thou  art  as  good  a  fel- 
low. I  am  a  singer,  a  drinker,  a  bencher,1  a  wencher ; 
I  can  say  a  mass,  and  kiss  a  lass :  faith,  I  have  a  par- 
sonage, and  because  I  would  not  be  at  too  much 
charges,  this  wench  serveth  me  for  a  sexton. 

Har.  Well  said,  mad  priest,  we'll  in  and  be  friends. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  London.    A  Room  in  tht  Axe  Inn,  \ctih- 
out  Bishop-gate. 

Enter  Sir  ROGER  ACTON,  BOURN,  BEVERLEy,  and 

MURLEY. 

Acton.  Now,  Master  Murley,  I  am  well -assured 
You  know  our  errand,  and  do  like  the  cause, 
Being  a  man  affected  as  we  are. 

Mur.  Marry  God  dild3  ye,  dainty  my  dear !  No 
master,  good  Sir  Roger  Acton,  Master  Bourn,  and 
Master  Beverley,  gentlemen  and  justices  of  the  peace  ; 
no  master  I,  but  plain  William  Murley,  the  brewer  of 
Dunstable,  your  honest  neighbor  and  your  friend,  if 
ye  be  men  of  my  profession. 

Bev.  Professed  friends  to  Wickliffe  ;  foes  to  Rome. 

Mur.  Hold  by  me,  lad  ;  lean  upon  that  staff,  good 
Master  Beverley;  all  of  a  house.  Say  your  mind, 
say  your  mind. 

Acton.  You  know  our  faction  now  is  grown  so  great 
Throughout  the  realm,  that  it  begins  to  smoke 
Into  the  clergy's  eyes,  and  the  king's  ears ; 
High  time  it  is  that  we  were  drawn  to  head, 
Our  general  and  officers  appointed  ;  — 
And  wars,  ye  wot,  will  ask  great  store  of  coin. 
Able  to  strengthen  our  action  with  your  purse, 
You  are  elected  for  a  colonel,  sir, 
Over  a  regiment  of  fifteen  bands. 

Mur.  Phew  !  paltry,  paltry !  in  and  out,  to  and  fro, 
be  it  more  or  less,  upon  occasion.  Lord  have  mercy 
upon  us,  what  a  world  is  this !  Sir  Roger  Acton,  I  am 
but  a  Dunslable  man.  a  plain  brewer,  you  know.  Will 
lusty  cavaliering  captains,  gentlemen,  come  at  my 
calling,  go  at  my  bidding  ?  Dainty  my  dear,  they'll 
do  a  dog  of  wax,  a  horse  of  cheese,  a  prick  and  a 
pudding.  No,  no  ;  you  must  appoint  some  lord,  or 
knight  at  least,  to  that  place. 

Bourn.  Why,  Master  Murley,  you  shall  be  a  knight : 
Were  you  not  in  election  to  be  sheriff? 
Have  ye  not  past  all  offices  but  that  ? 
Have  ye  not  wealth  to  make  your  wife  a  lady  ? 
I  warrant  you,  my  lord,  our  general 
Bestows  that  honor  on  you,  at  first  sight. 

Mur.  Marry  God  dild  ye,  dainty  my  dear : 
But  tell  me  who  shall  be  our  general. 
Where's  the  lord  Cobham,  Sir  John  Oldcastle, 

1  One  who  does  not  scruple  to  sleep  on  an  ale-bench  after 
•  his  potations.  "  Thou  art  so  fatwitted,"  says  the  prince  to 
F&lstaff,  "  with  drinking  of  old  sack,  and  unbuttoning  tnee 
after  supper,  and  sleeping  upon  benches  at  noon." 

9  Dild — a  corruption  and  compound  of  "  do  shield" — thus : 
"do  shield"— do-ield,— dild. 


That  noble  alms-giver,  housekeeper  virtuous, 
Religious  gentleman  ?    Come  to  me  there,  boys, 
Come  to  me  there. 

Acton.  Why,  who  but  he  shall  be  our  general  ? 

Mur.  And  shall  he   knight  me,   and    make  mt 
colonel  ? 

Acton.  My  word  for  that,  Sir  William  Murley, 
knight. 

Mur.  Fellow  [of]  Sir  Roger  Acton,  knight ;  all  fel- 
lows,! mean  in  arms,  how  strong  are  we  ?  how  many 
partners  ?  Our  enemies  beside  the  king  are  mighty ; 
be  it  more  or  less,  upon  occasion,  reckon  our  force. 

Acton.  There  are  of  us  our  friends  and  followers, 
Three  thousand  and  three  hundred  at  the  least : 
Of  northern  lads,  four  thousand,  beside  horse  ; 
From  Kent  there  comes,  with  Sir  John  Oldcastle 
Seven  thousand :  then,  from  London  issue  out, 
Of  masters,  servants,  strangers,  'prentices, 
Forty  odd  thousand  into  Ticket-field, 
WThere  we  appoint  our  special  rendezvous. 

Mur.  Phew  !  paltry,  paltry  !  in  and  out,  to  and  fro, 
Lord  have  mercy  upon  us,  what  a  world  is  this  .' 
Where's  that  Ficket-field,  Sir  Roger  ? 

Acton.  Behind  St.  Giles  in  the  field,  near  Holborn. 

Mur.  Newgate,  up  Holbom,  St.  Giles  in  the  field, 
and  to  Tyburn ;  an  old  say.'  For  the  day,  for  the 
day? 

Acton.  On  Friday  next,  the  fourteenth  day  of  Jan- 
uary. 

Mur.  Tilly  vally,  trust  me  never  if  I  have  any 
liking  of  that  day.  Phew  !  paltry,  paltry  !  Friday, 
quotha ;  dismal  day ;  Childermas  day  this  year  was 
Friday. 

Bev.    Nay,  Master  Murley,  if  you  observe  such 

days, 

We  make  some  question  of  your  constancy, 
All  days  are  like  to  men  resolved  in  right. 

Mur.  Say  amen,  and  say  no  more,  but  say  and 
hold,  Master  Beverley :  Friday  next,  and  Ficket-field, 
and  William  Murley  and  his  merry  men  shall  be  all 
one.  I  have  half  a  score  jades  that  draw  my  beer- 
carts,  and  every  jade  shall  bear  a  knave,  and  every 
knave  shall  wear  a  jack,  and  every  jack  shall  have  a 
scull,  and  every  scull  shall  show  a  spear,  and  every 
spear  shall  kill  a  foe  at  Ficket-field,  at  Ficket-field  : 
John  and  Tom,  Dick  and  Hodge,  Ralph  and  Robbin, 
Will  and  George,  and  all  my  knaves  shall  fight  like 
men,  at  Ficket-field,  on  Friday  next. 

Bourn.  What  sum  of  money  mean  you  to  disburse  ? 

Mur.  It  may  be  modestly,  decently,  and  soberly, 
and  handsomely,  I  may  bring  five  hundred  pound. 

Acton.  Five  hundred,    man?  five  thousand's  not 
A  hundred  thousand  will  not  pay  our  men    [enough : 
Two  months  together.    Either  come  prepared, 
Like  a  brave  knight,  and  martial  colonel, 
In  glittering  gold,  and  gallant  furniture, 
Bringing  in  coin,  a  cartload  at  the  least, 
And  all  your  followers  mounted  on  good  horse, 
Or  never  come  disgraceful  to  us  all. 

Bev.  Perchance  you  may  be  chosen  treasurer ; 
Ten  thousand  pound's  the  least  that  you  can  bring. 

Mur.  Paltry,  paltry !  in  and  out,  to  and  fro  :  upon 
occasion  I  have  ten  thousand  pound  to  spend,  and  ten 
[more]  too.  And  rather  than  the  bishop  shall  have 
his  will  of  me,  for  my  conscience,  it  shall  all  go. 
Flame  and  flax,  flax  and  flame.  It  was  got  with  wa- 
3  Say  or  *otc— the  word  IB  written  both  ways. 


ACT  IT.  — SCENE  III. 


99 


ter  and  malt,  and  it  shall  fly  with  fire  and  gunpow- 
der. Sir  Roger,  a  cart-load  of  money  till  the  axle- 
tree  crack  ;  myself  and  my  men  in  Picket-field  on 
Friday  next :  remember  my  knighthood  and  my  place : 
there's  my  hand  ;  I'll  be  there.  [Exit  MURLEY. 

Acton.  See  what  ambition  may  persuade  men  to, 
In  hope  of  honor  he  will  spend  himself. 

Bourn.  I  never  thought  a  brewer  half  so  rich. 

Bev.  Was  never  bankrupt  brewer  yet  but  one, 
With  using  too  much  malt,  too  little  water. 

Acton.  That  is  no  fault  in  brewers  now-a-days : 
Come,  let's  away,  about  our  business. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  An  Audience  Chamber  in  the  Palace  at 
Eltham. 

Enter  King  HENRY,  the  Duke  of  SUFFOLK,  BUTLER, 
and  Sir  JOHN  OLDCASTLE  —  he  kneels  to  the  King. 

K.  Hen.  >Tis  not  enough,  Lord  Cobham,  to  submit ; 
You  must  forsake  your  gross  opinion. 
The  bishops  find  themselves  much  injured, 
And  though,  for  some  good  service  you  have  done, 
We,  for  our  part,  are  pleased  to  pardon  you, 
Yet  they  will  not  so  soon  be  satisfied. 

Cob.  My  gracious  lord,  unto  your  majesty, 
Next  unto  God  [himself],  I  owe  my  life  ; 
And  what  is  mine,  either  by  nature's  gift, 
Or  fortune's  bounty,  all  is  at  your  service. 
But  for  obedience  to  the  pope  of  Rome. 
I  owe  him  none  ;  nor  shall  his  shaveling  priests 
That  are  in  England,  alter  my  belief. 
If,  out  of  Holy  Scriptures  they  can  prove 
That  I  am  in  an  error,  I  will  yield, 
And  gladly  take  instruction  at  their  hands : 
But  otherwise,  I  do  beseech  your  grace, 
My  conscience  may  not  be  encroached  upon. 

K.  Hen.  We  would  be  loath  to  press  our  subjects' 

bodies, 

Much  less  their  souls,  the  dear  redeemed  part 
Of  Him  that  is  the  ruler  of  us  all : 
Yet  let  me  counsel  you,  that  might  command ; 
Do  not  presume  to  tempt  them  with  ill  words, 
Nor  suffer  any  meetings  to  be  had 
Within  your  house,  but,  to  the  uttermost, 
Disperse  the  flocks  of  this  new  gathering  sect. 

Cob.  My  liege,  if  any  breath  that  dares  come  forth, 
And  say  my  life  in  any  of  these  points 
Deserves  th'attainder  of  ignoble  thoughts : 
Here  stand  I,  craving  no  remorse  at  all, 
But  even  the  utmost  rigor  may  be  shown. 

K.  Hen.  Let  it  suffice  we  know  your  loyalty. 
What  have  you  there  ? 

Cob.  A  deed  of  clemency, 

Your  highness'  pardon  for  Lord  Powis'  life, 
Which  I  did  beg,  and  you,  my  noble  lord, 
Of  gracious  favor  did  vouchsafe  to  grant. 

K.  Hen.  But  yet  it  is  not  signed  with  our  hand. 

Cob.  Not  yet,  my  liege. 

K.  Hen.  The  fact,  you  say,  was  done 

Not  of  prepensed1  malice,  but  by  chance. 

Cob.  Upon  mine  honor  so,  no  otherwise. 

K.  Hen.  [signs  the  pardon].  There  is  his  pardon; 
bid  him  make  amends, 

I  Pretensed  in  the  old  copy ;  and  as  this  word  anciently 
was  made  to  signify  intended  or  designed,  it  still  might 
answer.  But  malice  prepense  or  prepensed  malice  seems 
most  legitimate. 


And  cleanse  his  soul  to  God  for  his  offence  : 
What  we  remit,  is  but  the  body's  scourge.  — 

Enter  Bishop  of  ROCHESTER. 

How  now,  lord  bishop  ? 

Bishop.  Justice,  dread  sovereign  ! 

As  thou  art  king,  so  grant  I  may  have  justice. 

K.  Hen.   What  means  this  exclamation?    Let  us 
know. 

Bishop.  Ah,  my  good  lord,  the  state  is  much  abused, 
And  our  decrees  most  shamefully  profaned. 

K.  Hen.  How  ?  and  by  whom  ? 

Bishop.  Even  by  this  heretic, 

This  Jew,  this  traitor  to  your  majesty. 

Cob.  Prelate,  thou  liest;  even  in  thy  greasy  maw, 
Or  whosoever  twits  me  with  the  name 
Either  of  traitor  or  of  heretic. 

K.  Hen.  Forbear,  I  say:  and  bishop,  show  the 

cause 
From  whence  this  late  abuse  hath  been  derived. 

Bishop.  Thus,  mighty  king.     By  general  consent 
A  messenger  was  sent  to  cite  this  lord 
To  make  appearance  in  the  consistory  : 
And,  coming  to  his  house,  a  ruffian  slave, 
One  of  his  daily  followers,  met  the  man, 
Who  knowing  him  to  be  a  paritor, 
Assaults  him  first,  and  after,  in  contempt 
Of  us  and  our  proceedings,  makes  him  eat 
The  written  process,  parchment,  seal,  and  all : 
Whereby,  this  matter  never  was  brought  forth, 
And  we  but  scorned  for  our  authority. 

K.  Hen.  When  was  this  done  ? 

Bishop.  At  six  o'clock  this  morning 

K.  Hen.  And  when  came  you  to  court  ? 

Cob.  Last  night,  my  liege 

K.  Hen.  By  this,  it  seems,  he  is  not  guilty  of  it, 
And  you  have  done  him  wrong  to  accuse  him  so. 

Bishop.  But  it  was  done,  my  lord,  by  his  appoint 
Or  else  his  man  durst  not  have  been  so  bold,     [ment 

K.  Hen.  Or  else  you  durst  be  bold  to  interrupt 
And  fill  our  ears  with  frivolous  complaints. 
Is  this  the  duty  you  do  bear  to  us  ? 
Was't  not  sufficient  we  did  pass  our  word 
To  send  for  him ;  but  you,  misdoubting  it, 
Or,  which  is  worse,  intending  to  forestall 
Our  regal  power,  must  likewise  summon  him  ? 
This  savors  of  ambition,  not  of  zeal, 
And  rather  proves  you  malice  his  estate, 
Than  any  way  that  he  offends  the  law. 
Go  to,  we  like  it  not :  and  he,  your  officer, 
Had  his  desert  for  being  insolent, 
That  was  employed  so  much  amiss  herein. 
So,  Cobham,  when  you  please,  you  may  depart. 

Cob.  I  humbly  bid  farewell  unto  my  liege. 

[Exit  COBHAM. 

K.  Hen.  Farewell.  [Enter  HUNTINGTON. 

What's  now  the  news  by  Huntington  ? 

Hunt.  Sir  Roger  Acton,  and  a  crew,  my  lord, 
Of  bold  seditious  rebels,  are  in  arms, 
Intending  reformation  of  religion, 
And  with  their  army  they  intend  to  pitch 
In  Ficket-field,  unless  they  be  repulsed. 

K.  Hen.  So  near  our  presence  ?     Dare  they  be  so 

bold? 

And  will  proud  war  and  eager  thirst  of  blood, 
Whom  we  had  thought  to  entertain  far  off, 
Press  forth  upon  us  in  our  native  bounds  ? 


JOO 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE. 


Must  we  be  forced  to  handsel  our  sharp  blades 
In  England  here,  which  we  prepared  for  France  ? 
Well,  in  God's  name  be  it.    What's  their  number,  say, 
Or  who's  the  chief  commander  of  this  rout  ? 

Hunt.  Their  number  is  not  known  as  yet,  my  lord, 
But  'tis  reported,  Sir  John  Oldcastle 
Is  the  chief  man,  on  whom  they  do  depend. 

K.  Hen.  How  ?  the  lord  Cobham  ? 

Hunt.  Yes,  my  gracious  lord. 

Bishop.  I  could  have  told  your  majesty  as  much 
Before  he  went,  but  that  I  saw  your  grace 
Was  too  much  blinded  by  his  flattery. 

Suff.  Send  post,  my  lord,  to  fetch  him  back  again. 

But.  Traitor  unto  his  country  !  how  he  smoothed 
And  seemed  as  innocent  as  truth  itself? 

K.  Hen.  I  can  not  think  it  yet  he  would  be  false  ; 
But,  if  he  be,  no  matter  ;  —  let  him  go  : 
We'll  meet  both  him  and  them  unto  their  wo. 

[Exeunt  King  HENRY,  SUFFOLK,  HUNTIUGTON, 
and  BUTLER. 

Bish.  This  falls  out  well ;  and  at  the  last,  I  hope 
To  see  this  heretic  dying  in  a  rope.  [Exit. 


ACT   III. 

SCENE  I.  —  An  Avenue  leading  to  Lord  COBHAM'S 
House  in  Kent. 

Enter  Earl  of  CAMBRIDGE,  Lord  SCROOP,  Sir  THOMAS 
GREY,  and  CHARTRES. 

Scroop.  Once  more,  my  lord  of  Cambridge,  make 

rehearsal 

How  you  do  stand  entitled  to  the  crown  :  — 
The  deeper  shall  we  print  it  in  our  minds, 
And  every  man  the  better  be  resolved, 
When  he  perceives  his  quarrel  to  be  just. 

Cam.  Then  thus,  Lord  Scroop,  Sir  Thomas  Grey, 

and  you, 

Monsieur  de  Chartres.  agent  for  the  French  :  — 
This  Lionel,  duke  of. Clarence  (as  I  said), 
Third  son  of  Edward  (England's  king)  the  Third, 
Had  issue  — Philippa.  his  sole  daughter  and  heir  ; 
Which  Philippa  afterward  was  given  in  marriage 
To  Edmund  Mortimer,  the  earl  of  March, 
And  by  him  had  a  son  called  Roger  Mortimer  j 
Which  Roger  likewise  had  of  his  descent, 
Kdmund  and  Roger,  Ann  and  Eleanor, 
Two  daughters  and  two  sons  ;  but  of  these,  three 
Died  without  issue.    Ann,  that  did  survive, 
And  now  was  left  her  father's  only  heir, 
My  fortune  'twas  to  marry,  being  also, 
By  my  grandfather,  of  King  Edward's  line  : 
So  of  his  surname  I  am  called,  you  know, 
Richard  Plantagenet.     My  father  was 
Kdward,  the  duke  of  York,  and  son  and  heir 
To  Edmund  Langley,  Edward  the  Third's  fifth  son. 

Scroop.  So  that  it  seems  your  claim  comes  by  your 
As  lawful  heir  to  Roger  Mortimer,  [wife, 

The  son  of  Edmund,  which  did  marry  Philippa, 
Daughter  and  heir  to  Lionel,  duke  of  Clarence. 

Cam.  True  ;  for  this  Harry,  and  his  father  both, 
Harry  the  Fourth,  as  plainly  doth  appear, 
Are  false  intruders,  and  usurp  the  crown. 
For  when  young  Richard  was  at  Pomfret  slain, 
In  him  the  title  of  Prince  Edward  died, 


That  was  the  eldest  of  King  Edward's  sons. 
William  of  Hatfield,  and  their  second  brother 
)eath  in  his  nonage  had  before  bereft : 
So  that  my  wife,  derived  from  Lionel, 
Third  son  unto  King  Edward,  ought  succeed1 
And  take  possession  of  the  diadem 
Before  this  Harry  or  his  father-king, 
Who  fetch  their  title  but  from  Lancaster, 
'ourth  of  that  royal  line.    And  being  thus, 
What  reason  is't  but  she  should  have  her  right  ? 

Scroop.  I  am  resolved  :  our  enterprise  is  just. 

Grey.  Harry  shall  die,  or  else  resign  his  crown. 

Char.  Perform  but  that,  and  Charles,  the  king  of 
Shall  aid  you,  lords,  not  only  with  his  men,   [France, 
3ut  send  you  money  to  maintain  your  wars  : 
five  hundred  thousand  crowns  he  bade  me  proffer, 
[f  you  can  stop  but  Harry's  voyage  for  France. 

Scroop.  We  never  had  a  fitter  time  than  now, 
The  realm  in  such  division  as  it  is. 

Cam.  Besides,  you  must  persuade  you  there  is  due 
Vengeance  for  Richard's  murder,  which,  although 
It  be  deferred,  yet  will  it  fall  at  last, 
And  now  as  likely  as  another  time. 
Sin  hath  had  many  years  to  ripen  in, 
And  now  the  harvest  can  not  be  far  off, 
Wherein  the  weeds  of  usurpation 
Are  to  be  cropped  and  cast  into  the  fire. 

Scroop.  No  more,  Earl  Cambridge  ;  here  I  plight 
To  set  up  thee  and  thy  renowned  wife.  [my  faith 

Grey.  Grey  will  perform  the  same,  as  he  is  knight. 

Char.  And,  to  assist  ye,  as  I  said  before, 
Chartres  doth  'gage  the  honor  of  his  king. 

Scroop.  We  lack  but  now  Lord  Cobham's  fellow- 
And  then  our  plot  were  absolute  indeed.  [ship, 

Cam.  Doubt  not  of  him,  my  lord  ;  his  life  pursued 
By  the  incensed  clergy,  and,  of  late, 
Brought  in  displeasure  with  the  king  —  assures 
He  may  be  quickly  won  unto  our  faction. 
Who  hath  the  articles  were  drawn  at  large 
Of  our  whole  purpose  ? 

Grey.  That  have  I,  my  lord. 

Cam.  We  should  not  now  be  far  off  from  his  house  ; 
Our  serious  conference  hath  beguiled  the  way : 
See  where  his  castle  stands  ;  give  me  the  writing. 
When  we  are  come  unto  the  speech  of  him, 
Because  we  will  not  stand  to  make  recount 
Of  that  which  hath  been  said,  here  he  shall  read 
Our  minds  at  large,  and  what  we  crave  of  him. 

Enter  Lord  COBHAM. 

Scroop.  A  ready  way.    Here  comes  the  man  him- 
self, 
Booted  and  spurred  :  it  seems  he  hath  been  riding. 

Cam.  Well  met,  Lord  Cobham. 

Cob.  My  lord  of  Cambridge, 

Your  honor  is  most  welcome  into  Kent, 
And  all  the  rest  of  this  fair  company. 
I  am  new  come  from  London,  gentle  lords  ; 
But  will  ye  not  take  Cowling*  for  your  host,' 
And  see  what  entertainment  it  affords  ? 

Cam.  We  were  intended  to  have  b^en  your  guests : 
But  now  this  lucky  meeting  shall  suffice 
To  end  our  business,  and  defer  that  kindness. 

1  "  Proceed"  is  the  word  in  the  old  copy,  and  was  no  doubt 
so  in  the  original,  but  only  in  the  sense  of  succeed  or  follow, 
so  that  the  present  word  is  the  proper  one. 

a  Cowling  was  the  name  of  Lord  Cobham's  seat  in  Kent 

3  Query  :  post  ? 


ACT  III.— SCENE  I. 


101 


Cob.  Business,  my  lord  ?  what  business  should  let 
You  to  be  merry  ?    We  have  no  delicates  ; 
Yet  this  I'll  promise  you  :  a  piece  of  venison, 
A  cup  of  wine,  and  so  forth  —  hunters'  fare  ; 
And,  if  you  please,  we'll  strike  the  stag  ;  ourselves 
Shall  fill  our  dishes  with  his  well-fed  flesh. 

Scroop.  That  is  indeed  the  thing  we  all  desire. 

Cob.  "My  lords,  and  you  shall  have  your  choice  with 
me. 

Cam.  Nay,  but  the  stag  which  we  desire  to  strike 
Lives  not  in  Cowling  :  if  you  will  consent,  . 
And  go  with  us,  we'll  bring  you  to  a  forest 
Where  runs  a  lusty  herd :  among  the  which 
There  is  a  stag  superior  to  the  rest ; 
A  stately  beast,  that,  when  his  fellows  run, 
He  leads  the  race,  and  beats  the  sullen  earth 
As  though  he  scorned  it  with  his  trampling  hoofs ; 
Aloft  he  bears  his  head,  and  with  his  breast, 
Like  a  huge  bulwark,  counter-checks  the  wind  ; 
And,  when  he  standeth  still,  he  stretcheth  forth 
His  proud  ambitious  neck,  as  if  he  meant 
To  wound  the  firmament  with  forked  horns. 

Cub.  'Tis  pity  such  a  goodly  beast  should  die. 

Cam.  Not  so,  Sir  John,  for  he  is  tyrannous, 
And  gores  the  other  deer,  and  will  not  keep 
Within  the  limits  are  appointed  him. 
Of  late  he's  broke  into  a  several, 
Which  doth  belong  to  me,  and  there  he  spoils 
Both  corn  and  pasture.     Two  of  his  wild  race, 
Alike  tor  stealth  and  covetous  encroaching. 
Already  are  removed  ;  —  if  he  were  dead, 
I  should  not  only  be  secure  from  hurt, 
But  with  his  body  make  a  royal  feast. 

Scroop.  How  say  you,  then?  will  you  first  hunt 
with  us  ? 

Cob.  'Faith,  lords,  I  like  the  pastime  ;  where's  the 
place  ? 

Cam.  Peruse  this  writing :  it  will  show  you  all, 
And  what  occasion  we  have  for  the  sport. 

[Presents  the  paper. 

Cob.  [Read*].  Call  ye  this  hunting,  lords  ?     Is  this 

the  stag 

You  fain  would  chase  —  Harry,  our  most  dread  king  ? 
So  may  we  make  a  banquet  for  the  devil, 
And,  in  the  stead  of  wholesome  meat,  prepare 
A  dish  of  poison  to  confound  ourselves ! 

Cam.  Why  so,  Lord  Cobham  ?     See  you  not  our 
And  how  imperiously  he  holds  the  crown  ?     [claim  ? 

Scroop.  Besides,  you  know  yourself  is  in  disgrace, 
Held  as  a  recreant,  and  pursued  to  death. 
This  will  defend  you  from  your  enemies, 
And  'stablish  your  religion  through  the  land. 

Cob.  [Aside] .  Notorious  treason  !  yet  I  will  conceal 
My  secret  thoughts,  to  sound  the  depth  of  it. 
My  lord  of  Cambridge,  I  do  see  your  claim, 
And  what  good  may  redound  unto  the  land 
By  prosecuting  of  this  enterprise. 
But  where  are  men?  where's  power  and  furniture 
To  order  such  an  action  ?     We  are  weak  ; 
Harry,  you  know's  a  mighty  potentate. 

Cam.  Tut,  we  are  strong  enough  ;  you  are  beloved, 
And  many  will  be  glad  to  follow  you  ; 
We  are  the  like,  and  some  will  follow  us  ; 
Theie's  hope  from  France  :  here's  an  embassador 
That  promiseth  both  men  and  money  too. 
The  commons  likewise,  as  we  hear,  pretend 
A  sudden  tumult :  we  will  join  with  them. 


Cob.  Some  likelihood,  I  must  confess,  to  speed : 
But  how  shall  I  believe  this  in  plain  truth  ? 
You  are,  my  lords,  such  men  as  live  in  court, 
And  have  been  highly  favored  of  the  king, 
Especially  Lord  Scroop,  whom  oftentimes 
He  maketh  choice  of  for  his  bed-fellow  ; 
And  you,  Lord  Grey,  are  of  his  privy  council ; 
Is  not  this  a  train  laid  to  entrap  my  life  ? 

Cam.  Then  perish  may  my  soul !     What !  think 
you  so  ? 

Scroop.  We'll  swear  to  you. 

Grey.  Or  take  the  sacrameni- 

Cob.  Nay,  you  are  noblemen,  and  I  imagine, 
As  you  are  honorable  by  birth  and  blood, 
So  you  will  be  in  heart,  in  thought,  in  word. 
I  crave  no  other  testimony  but  this  : 
That  you  would  all  subscribe,  and  set  your  hands 
Unto  this  writing  which  you  gave  to  me. 

Cam.  With  all  our  hearts.     Who  hath  any  pen  and 
ink? 

Scroop.  My  pocket  should  have  one  :  O,  here  it  is. 

Cam.  Give  it  me,  Lord  Scroop.    There  is  my  name. 

Scroop.  And  there  is  mine. 

Grey.  And  m:ne. 

Cob.  sir,  let  me  crave 

That  you  would  likewise  write  your  name  with  theirs, 
For  confirmation  of  your  master's  words, 
The  king  of  France. 

Char.  That  will  I,  noble  lord. 

Cob.  So,  now,  this  action  is  well  knit  together, 
And  I  am  for  you.     Where's  our  meeting,  lords  ? 

Com.  Here,  if  you  please,  the  tenth  of  July  next. 

Cob.  In  Kent  ?    Agreed.     Now  let  us  in  to  supper; 
I  hope  your  honors  will  not  away  to-night. 

Cam.  Yes,  presently,  for  I  have  far  to  ride, 
About  soliciting  of  other  friends. 

Scroop.  And  we  would  not  be  absent  from  the  court, 
Lest  thereby  grow  suspicion  in  the  king. 

Cob.  Yet  taste  a  cup  of  wine  before  ye  go. 

Cam.  Not  now,  my  lord,  we  thank  you :  so  fare- 
well.   [Exeunt  SCROOP,  GREY,  CAMERID&E, 
and  CFIARTRES. 

Cob.  Farewell,  my  noble  lords  !  —  my  noble  lord* !' 
My  noble  villains,  base  conspirators ! 
How  can  they  look  his  highness  in  the  face, 
Whom  they  so  closely  study  to  betray  ? 
But  I'll  not  sleep  until  I  make  it  known: 
This  head  shall  not  be  burdened  with  such  thoughts^ 
Nor  in  this  heart  will  1  conceal  a  deed 
Of  such  impiety  against  my  king. 
Madam,  how  now  ? 

Enter  Lady  COBHAM,  Lord  Powis,  Lady  Powis,  ana 
HARPOOL. 

Lady  Cob.  You're  welcome  home,  my  lord. 

Why  seem  you  so  unquiet  in  your  looks  ? 
What  hath  befallen  you  that  disturbs  your  mind  ? 

Lady  Pow.  Bad  news.  I  am  afraid,  touching  my 
husband. 

Cob.  Madam,  not  so  :  there  is  your  husband's  par- 
don. 
Long  may  ye  live,  each  joy  unto  the  other  ! 

Lady  Pow.  So  great  a  kindness,  as  I  know  not  how 
To  make  reply  :  my  sense  is  quite  confounded. 

Cob.  Let  that  alone  ;  and,  madam,  stay  me  not, 
For  I  must  back  unto  the  court  again, 
With  all  the  speed  I  can.     Harpool,  my  horse.. 


102 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE. 


Lady  Cob.  So  soon,  my  lord?    what,  will  you  ride 
all  night  ? 

Cob.  All  night  or  day :  it  must  be  so,  sweet  wife  ; 
Urge  me  not  why,  or  what  my  business  is, 
But  get  you  in.     Lord  Powis,  bear  with  me. 
And,  madam,  think  your  welcome  ne'er  the  worse  ; 
My  house  is  at  your  use.    Harpool,  away  ! 

Har.  Shall  I  attend  your  lordship  to  the  court  ? 

Co1).  Yea,  sir  ;  your  gelding  mount  you  presently. 

[Exit  COBHAM. 

Lady  Cob.  I  prythee,  Harpool,  look  unto  thy  lord ; 
I  do  not  like  this  sudden  posting  back. 

Pow.  Some  earnest  business  is  afoot,  belike  ; 
Whate'er  it  be,  pray  God  be  his  good  guide. 

J.ndy  Pow.  Amen,  that  hath  so  highly  us  bestead. 

L-idy  Cob.  Come,  madam,  and  my  lord,  we'll  hope 
You  shall  not  into  Wales  till  he  return.  [the  best  ; 

Pow.  Though  great  occasion  be  we  should  depart, 
Yet.  madam,  will  we  stay,  to  be  resolved 
Of  this  unlooked-for,  doubtful  accident.         [Exeunt. 

SCKNE  II.  —  A  Road  near  Highgate. 
Enter  MURLEY  and  Followers. 

Mur.  Come,  my  hearts  of  flint,  modestly,  decently, 
soberly,  and  handsomely  ;  no  man  afore  his  leader  : 
follow  your  master,  your  captain,  your  knight  that 
shall  be,  for  the  honor  of  mealmen,  millers,  and  malt- 
men.  Dun  is  the  mouse.  Dick  and  Tom,  for  the 
credit  of  Dunstable,  ding  down  the  enemy  to-morrow. 
Ye  shall  not  come  into  the  field  like  beggars.  Where 
be  Leonard  and  Lawrence,  my  two  loaders  ?  Lord 
have  mercy  upon  us,  what  a  world  is  this  !  I  would 
give  a  couple  of  shillings  for  a  dozen  of  good  feathers 
for  ye,  and  forty  pence  for  as  many  scarfs  to  set  you 
out  withal.  Frost  and  snow  !  a  mau  has  no  heart  to 
fight  till  he  be  brave. 

Dick.  Master,  we  are  no  babes,  our  town  footballs 
can  bear  witness  ;  this  little  'parel  we  have  shall  off, 
and  we'll  fight  naked  before  we  run  away. 

Tom.  Nay.  I'm  of  Lawrence'  mind  for  that,  for  he 
means  to  leave  his  life  behind  him  ;  he  and  Leonard, 
your  two  loaders,  are  making  their  wills,  because 
they  have  wives  ;  now,  we  bachelor^  bid  our  friends 
scramble  for  our  goods  if  we  die.  But,  master,  pray 
let  me  ride  upon  Cut. 

Mur.  Meal  and  salt,  wheat  and  malt,  fire  and  tow, 
frost  and  snow  !  why,  Tom,  thou  shall.  Let  me  see  : 
here  are  you  ;  William  and  George  are  with  my  cart  ; 
and  Robin  and  Hodge  holding  my  own  two  horses; 
proper  men,  handsome  men,  tall  men,  true  men. 

Dick.  But,  master,  master,  methinks  you  are  mad 
to  hazard  your  own  person,  and  a  cartload  of  money 
too. 

Tom.  Yea,  and  master,  there's  a  worse  matter 
in't :  if  it  be,  as  I  heard  say,  we  go  fight  against  all 
the  learned  bishops,  that  should  give  us  their  bles- 
sing, and  if  they  curse  us,  we  shall  speed  ne'er  the 
better. 

Dick.  Nay,  by'r  lady,  some  say  the  king  takes  their 
part ;  and,  master,  dare  you  fight  against  the  king  ? 

Mur.  Fie  !  paltry,  paltry  ;  in  and  out,  to  and  fro, 
•upon  occasion  ;  if  the  king  be  so  unwise  to  come 
there,  we'll  fight  with  him  too. 

Tom.  What  if  ye  should  kill  the  king. 

Mur.  Then  we'll  make  another. 

Dick.  Is  that  all  ?    Do  ye  not  speak  treason  ? 


Mur.  If  we  do,  who  dare  trip  us?  We  come  to 
fight  for  our  conscience  and  for  honor.  Little  know 
you  what  is  in  my  bosom  :  look  here,  mad  knaves,  a 
pair  of  gilt  spurs. 

Tom.  A  pair  of  golden  spurs  ?  Why  do  you  not 
put  them  on  your  heels  ?  Your  bosom's  no  place  foi 
spurs. 

Mur.  Be't  more  or  less  upon  occasion,  Lord  have 
mercy  upon  us.  Tom,  thou'rt  a  fool,  and  thou 
speak'st  treason  to  knighthood.  Dare  any  wear  gold 
or  silver  spurs,  till  he  be  a  knight  ?  No.  I  shall  be 
knighted  to-morrow,  and  then  they  shall  on.  Sirs, 
was  it  ever  read  in  the  church-book  of  Dunstable.  that 
ever  malt-man  was  made  knight? 

Tom.  No;  but  you  are  more;  you  are  meal-man, 
malt-man,  miller,  corn-master,  and  all. 

Dick.  Yea,  and  half  a  r"-»wer  *oo  and  the  devil  and 
all  for  wealth.  You  bring  more  money  with  you  than 
all  the  rest. 

Mur.  The  more's  my  honor.  I  shall  be  a  knight  to- 
morrow. Let  me 'spose  my  men ;  —  Tom  upon  Cut, 
Dick  upon  Hob,  Hodge  upon  Ball,  Ralph  upon  Sorrel, 
and  Robin  upon  the  fore-horse. 

Enter  ACTON,  BOURN,  and  BEVERLEY. 

Tom.  Stand  :  who  comes  there  ? 

Acton.  All  friends,  good  fellow. 

Mur.  Friends  and  fellows,  indeed,  Sir  Roger. 

Acton.  Why,  thus  you  show  yourself  a  gentleman, 
To  keep  your  day,  and  come  so  well  prepared. 
Your  cart  stands  yonder  guarded  by  your  men, 
Who  tell  me  it  is  laden  well  with  coin  ; 
What  sum  is  there  ? 

Mur.  Ten  thousand  pound,  Sir  Roger;  and  mod- 
estly,  decently,  soberly,  and  handsomely,  see  what  1 
have  here,  against  I  be  knighted. 

Acton.  Gilt  spurs  ?    'Tis  well. 

Mur.  Where's  our  army,  sir? 

Acton.  Dispersed  in  sundry  villages  about ; 
Some  here  with  us  in  Highgate,  some  at  Finchley 
Tot'nam,  Enfield,  Edmunton,  Newington, 
Islington,  Hogsdon,  Pancras,  Kensington  ; 
Some  nearer  Thames,  Rateliff,  Blackwall,  and  Bow 
But  our  chief  strength  must  be  the  Londoners, 
Which,  ere  the  sun  to-morrow  shine, 
Will  be  near  fifty  thousand  in  the  field. 

Mur.  Marry,  God  dild  ye.  dainty  my  dear ;  but 
upon  occasion,  Sir  Roger  Acton,  doth  not  the  king 
know  of  it,  and  gather  his  power  against  us  ? 

Acton.  No,  he's  secure  at  Eltham. 

Mur.  What  do  the  clergy  ? 

Acton.  They  fear  extremely,  yet  prepare  no  force. 

Mur.  In  and  out,  to  and  fro  ;  bully  my  boykin,  we 
shall  carry  the  world  afore  us.  I  vow,  by  my  wor- 
ship, when  I  am  knighted,  we'll  take  the  king  nap- 
ping, if  he  stand  on  their  part. 

Acton.  This  night  we  few  in  High-gate  will  repose  ; 
With  the  first  cock  we'll  rise  and  arm  o'urselves, 
To  be  in  Picket-field  by  break  of  day, 
And  there  expect  our  general,  Sir  John  Oldcaslle, 

Mur.  What  if  he  comes  not  ? 

Bourn.  Yet  our  action  stands  ; 
Sir  Roger  Acton  may  supply  his  place. 

Mur.  True,  Master  Bourn,  but  who  shall  make  me 
knight  ? 

Bev.  He  that  hath  power  to  be  our  general. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  IV. 


103 


Act.  Talk  not  of  trifles  ;  come,  let  us  away, 
Our  friends  of  London  long  till  it  be  day.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— A  High  Road  in  Kent. 
Enter  Sir  JOHN  of  Wrotham,  and  DOLL. 

Doll.  By  my  troth,  thou  art  as  jealous  a  man  as 
lives. 

.Sir  John.  Canst  thou  blame  me,  Doll  ?  thou  art  my 
lands,  my  goods,  my  jewels,  my  wealth,  my  purse  ; 
none  walks  within  forty  miles  of  London,  but  supplies 
thee  as  truly,  as  the  parish  does  the  poor  man's  box. 

Doll.  I  am  as  true  to  thee  as  the*  stone  is  in  the 
wall,  and  thou  knowest  well  enough  I  was  in  as  good 
doing,  when  I  came  to  thee,  as  any  wench  need  to  be  : 
and  therefore  thou  hast  tried  me,  —  that  thou  hast : 
and  I  will  not  be  kept  as  I  have  been,  that  I  will  not. 

Sir  John.  Doll,  if  this  blade  hold,  there's  not  a 
pedlar  walks  with  a  pack,  but  thou  shalt  as  boldly 
choose  of  his  wares,  as  with  thy  ready  money  in  a 
merchant's  shop ;  we'll  have  as  good  silver  as  the 
king  coins  any. 

Doll.  What,  is  all  the  gold  spent  you  took  the  last 
day  from  the  courtier  ? 

Kir  John.  'Tis  gone,  Doll,  'tis  flown  ;  merrily  come, 
merrily  gone  ;  he  comes  a-horseback  that  must  pay 
for  all ;  we'll  have  as  good  meat  as  money  can  get, 
and  as  good  gowns  as  can  be  bought  for  gold :  be 
merry,  wench  ;  the  malt-man  comes  on  Monday. 

Doll.  You  might  have  left  me  at  Cobham,  until 
you  had  been  better  provided  for. 

Sir  John.  No,  sweet  Doll,  no ;  I  like  not  that ;  yon 
old  ruffian  is  not  for  the  priest :  I  do  not  like  a  new 
clerk  should  come  in  the  told  belfrey. 

Doll.  Thou  art  a  mad  priest,  i'faith. 

Sir  John.  Come,  Doll,  I'll  see  thee  safe  at  some 
alehouse  here  at  Cray,  and  the  next  sheep  that  comes, 
shall  leave  behind  his  fleece.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.— Blackheath. 
Enter  King  HENRY,  disguised  ;  SUFFOLK,  and  BUTLEH. 

A'.  Hen.  My  lord  of  Suffolk,  post  away  for  life, 
And  let  our  forces,  of  such  horse  and  foot, 
As  can  be  gathered  up  by  any  means, 
Make  speedy  rendezvous  in  Tothill-fields. 
It  must  be  done  this  evening,  my  good  lord  ; 
This  night  the  rebels  mean  to  draw  to  head 
Near  Islington  ;  which,  if  your  speed  prevent  not — 
If  once  they  should  unite  their  several  forces — 
Their  power  is  almost  thought  invincible. 
Away,  my  lord,  I  will  be  with  you  soon. 

Svff.  I  go,  my  sovereign,  with  all  happy  speed. 

X.  Hen.  Make  haste,  my  lord  of  Suffolk,  as  you 
love  us.  [Exit  SUFFOLK. 

Butler,  post  you  to  London  with  all  speed : 
Command  the  mayor  and  sheriffs,  on  their  allegiance, 
The  city-gates  be  presently  shut  up, 
And  guarded  with  a  strong  sufficient  watch, 
And  not  a  man  be  suffered  to  pass, 
Without  a  special  warrant  from  ourself. 
Command  the  postern  by  the  tower  be  kept, 
And  proclamation, on  the  pain  of  death, 
That  not  a  citizen  stir  from  his  doors, 
Except  such  as  the  mayor  and  sheriffs  shall  choose 
For  their  own  guard,  and  safety  of  their  persons  : 
Butler,  away,  have  care  unto  thy1  charge. 

1  Written,  "  my  charge,"  elsewhere. 


But.  I  go,  my  sovereign. 

Jf.  Hen.  Butler ! 

But.  My  lord  ? 

J{.  Hen.  Go  down  by  Greenwich,  and  command  a 

boat, 
At  the  Friars-bridge  attend  my  coming  down. 

But.  I  will,  my  lord.  [Exit  BUTLER. 

K.  Hen.  'Tis  time,  I  think,  to  look  unto  rebellion, 
When  Acton  doth  expect  unto  his  aid, 
No  less  than  fifty  thousand  Londoners. 
Well,  I'll  to  Westminster  in  this  disguise, 
To  hear  what  news  is  stirring  in  these  brawls. 

Enter  Sir  JOHN  of  Wrotham,  and  DOLL. 

Sir  John.  Stand,  true-man,  says  a  thief. 

K.  Hen.  Stand,  thief,  says  a  true  man :  how  if  a 
thief? 

Sir  John.  Stand,  thief,  too. 

K.  Hen.  Then,  thief  or  true-man,  I  must  stand,  I 

see, 

Howsoe'er  the  world  wags,  trade  of  thieving  yet 
Will  never  down.    What  art  thou  ? 

Sir  John.  A  good  fellow. 

K.  Hen.  And  so  am  I,  too  ;  I  see  that  thou  dost 
know  me. 

Sir  John.  If  thou  be  a  good  fellow,  play  the  good 
fellow's  part  ;  deliver  thy  purse  without  more  ado. 

K.  Hen.  I  have  no  money. 

Sir  John.  I  must  make  you  find  some  before  we  part. 
If  you  have  no  money,  you  shall  have  ware  ;  as  many 
sound  blows  as  your  skin  can  carry. 

K.  Hen.  Is  that  the  plain  truth  ? 

Sir  John.  Sirrah,  no  more  ado  ;  come,  come  ;  give 
me  the  money  you  have.  Despatch,  I  can  not  stand 
all  day. 

K.  Hen.  Well,  if  thou  wilt  needs  have  it,  there  it 
is :  just  the  proverb,  one  thief  robs  another.  Where 
the  devil  are  all  my  old  thieves  ?  Falstaff,  that  vil- 
lain, is  so  fat,  he  can  not  get  on's  horse ;  but  me- 
thinks  Poins  and  Peto  should  be  stirring  hereabouts. 

Sir  John.  How  much  is  there  on't,o'thy  word? 

K.  Hen.  A  hundred  pound  in  angels,  on  my  word. 
The  time  has  been  I  would  have  done  as  much 
For  thee,  if  thou  hadst  past  this  way,  as  I 
Have  now. 

Sir  John.  Sirrah,  what  art  thou?  thou  seem'st  a 
gentleman. 

K.  Hen.  I  am  no  less  ;  yet  a  poor  one  now,  for  thou 
hast  all  my  money. 

Sir  John.  From  whence  cam'st  thou  ? 

K.  Hen.  From  the  court  at  Eltham. 

Sir  John.  Art  thou  one  of  the  king's  servants  ? 

K.  Hen.  Yes,  that  I  am,  and  one  of  his  chamber. 

Sir  John.  I  am  glad  thou'rt  no  worse :  Ihou  may'st 
the  better  spare  thy  money.  I  think  thou  might'st 
get  a  poor  thief  his  pardon  if  he  should  have  need. 

K.  Hen.  Yes,  that  I  can. 

Sir  John.  Wilt  thou  do  so  much  for  me,  when  I 
shall  have  occasion  ? 

K.  Hen.  Yes,  faith  will  I,  so  it  be  for  no  murder. 

Sir  John.  Nay,  I  am  a  pitiful  thief;  all  the  hurt  I 
do  a  man,  I  take  but  his  purse  :  I'll  kill  no  man. 

K.  Hen.  Then,  on  my  word,  I'll  do't. 

Sir  John.  Give  me  thy  hand  on  the  same. 

K.  Hen.  There  'tis. 

Sir  John.  Metbinks  the  king  should  be  good  to 


104 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE. 


thieves,  because  he  has  been  a  thief  himself,  although 
I  think  now  he  be  turned  a  true  man. 

K.  Hen.  'Faith,  I  have  heard,  indeed,  he  has  had 
an  ill  name  that  way  in  his  youth:  but  how  canst 
thou  tell  that  he  has  been  a  thief? 

Sir  John.  How?  because  he  once  robbed  me  before 
I  fell  to  the  trade  myself,  when  that  foul  villanous 
guts,  that  led  him  to  all  that  roguery,  was  in  his 
company  there  ;  that  Falstaff. 

K.  Hen.  [aside].  Well,  if  he  did  rob  thee  then,  thou 
art  but  even  with  him,  now,  I'll  be  sworn.  Thou 
knowest  not  the  king  now,  I  think,  if  thou  sawest 
him? 

Sir  John.  Not  I,  i'faith. 

K.  Hen,  [aside] .  So  it  should  seem. 

Sir  John.  Well,  if  old  King  Harry  had  lived,  this 
king,  that  is  now,  had  made  thieving  the  best  trade  in 
England. 

K.  Hen.  Why  so  ? 

Sir  John.  Because  he  was  the  chief  warden  of  our 
company.  It's  pity  that  e'er  he  should  have  been  a 
king,  he  was  so  brave  a  thief.  But,  sirrah,  wilt  re- 
member my  pardon,  if  need  be  ? 

K.  Hen.  Yes,  faith,  will  I. 

Sir  John.  Wilt  thou  ?  well,  then,  because  thou  shall 
go  safe,  for  thou  may'st  hap  (being  so  early)  be  met 
with  again  before  thou  come  to  Southwark,  if  any 
man  when  he  should  bid  thee  good  morrow,  bid  thee 
stand,  say  thou  but  Sir  John,  and  they  will  let  thee 
pass. 

K.  Hen.  Is  that  the  word?  then  let  me  alone. 

Sir  John.  Nay,  sirrah,  because  I  think,  indeed,  I 
shall  have  some  occasion  to  use  thee,  and  as  thou 
comest  oft  this  way,  I  may  light  on  thee  another  time, 
not  knowing  thee,  here,  I'll  break  this  angel ;  take 
thou  half  of  it ;  this  is  a  token  betwixt  thee  and  me. 

K.  Hen.  God-a-mercy  :  farewell.  [Exit. 

Sir  John.  0,  my  fine  golden  slaves  !  here's  for  thee, 
wench,  i'faith.  Now,  Doll,  we  will  revel  in  our  bever,1 
this  is  a  tythe  pig  of  my  vicarage.  God-a-mercy, 
neighbor  Shooter's  Hill,  you  ha'  paid  your  tythe  hon- 
estly. Well,  I  hear  there  is  a  company  of  rebels  up 
against  the  king,  got  together  in  Ficket-field,  near 
Holborn,  and  as  it  is  thought,  here  in  Kent,  the  king 
will  be  there  to-night  in  his  own  person.  Well,  I'll 
to  the  king's  camp,  and  it  shall  go  hard,  if  there  be 
any  doings,  but  I'll  make  some  good  boot  among 
them.  [Exeunt, 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Field  near  London.    King  HENRY'S 
Camp. 

Enter  King  HENRY,  disguised ;  SUFFOLK,  HUNTINGTON, 
and  Attendants,  with  torches. 

K.  Hen.  My  lords  of  Suffolk  and  of  Huntington, 
Who  scouts  it  now?  or  who  stand  sentinels? 
What  men  of  worth  ?  what  lords  do  walk  the  round  ? 

Suff.  May't  please  your  highness  — 

K.  Hen.  Peace,  no  more  of  that :  — 
The  king's  asleep,  wake  not  his  majesty, 

1  Sever  was  the  intermediate  refreshment  between  break- 
fast and  dinner.  The  term  is  now  used  among  harvestmen 
and  other  laborers.  It  is  a  meal  between  meals. 


With  terms  or  titles ;  he's  at  rest  in  bed. 

Kings  do  not  use  to  watch  themselves ;  they  sleep, 

And  let  rebellion  and  conspiracy 

Revel  and  havoc  in  the  commonwealth. 

Is  London  looked  unto  ? 

Hunt.  It  is,  my  lord : 

Your  noble  uncle,  Exeter,  is  there,  — 
Your  brother  Gloster,  and  my  lord  of  Warwick ; 
Who,  with  the  mayor  and  the  aldermen, 
Do  guard  the  gates,  and  keep  good  rule  within. 
The  earl  of  Cambridge  and  Sir  Thomas  Grey 
Do  walk  the  round  ;  Lord  Scroop  and  Butler  scout ; 
So,  though  it  please  your  majesty  to  jest, 
Were  you  in  bed,  you  well  might  take  your  rest. 

K.  Hen.  I  thank  ye,  lords  :  but  you  do  know  of  old, 
That  I  have  been  a  perfect  night-walker. 
London,  you  say,  is  safely  looked  unto, 
Alas,  poor  rebels,  there  your  aid  must  fail ; 
And  the  lord  Cobham,  Sir  John  Oldcastle, 
Quiet  in  Kent.    Acton,  you  are  deceived : 
Reckon  again  ;  you  count  without  your  host. 
To-morrow  you  shall  give  account  to  us ; 
Till  when,  my  friends,  this  long,  cold  winter's  night, 
How  can  we  spend  ?    King  Harry  is  asleep, 
And  all  his  lords ;  these  garments  tell  us  so  ; 
All  friends  at  football,  fellows  all  in  field. 
Harry,  and  Dick,  and  George.    Bring  us  a  drum. 
Give  us  square  dice  ;  we'll  keep  this  court  of  guard, 
For  all  good  fellows'  companies  that  come. 
Where's  that  mad  priest  ye  told  me  was  in  arms 
To  fight,  as  well  as  pray,  if  need  required  ? 

Suff.  He's  in  the  camp,  and  if  he  knew  of  this, 
I  undertake  he  would  not  long  be  hence. 

K.  Hen.  Trip  Dick,  trip  George.     [Here]  I  must 

have  the  dice : 
What  do  we  play  at  ?9 

Suff.  Passage,3  if  ye  please. 

Hunt.  Set  round,  then :  so  ;  at  all. 

K.  Hen.  George,  you  are  out. 

Give  me  the  dice;  —  I  pass  for  twenty  pound;  — 
Here's  to  our  lucky  passage  into  France. 

Hunt,  Harry,  you  pass,  indeed,  for  you  sweep  all. 

Suff.  A  sign  King  Harry  shall  sweep  all  in  France. 

Enter  Sir  JOHN  of  Wrotham. 

Sir  John.  Edge  ye,  good  fellows ;  take  a  fresh 
gamester  in. 

K.  Hen.  Master  parson,  we  play  nothing  but  gold  ? 

Sir  John.  And,  fellow,  I  tell  thee  that  the  priest 
hath  gold,  gold  !  what  ?  ye  are  but  beggarly  soldiers 
to  me  ;  I  think  I  have  more  gold  than  all  you  three. 

Hunt.  It  may  be  so,  but  we  believe  it  not. 

K  Hen.  Set,  priest,  set :  I  pass  for  all  that  gold. 

Sir  John.  Ye  pass,  indeed. 

K.  Hen.  Priest,  hast  anymore? 

Sir  John.  More  ?  what  a  question's  that  ? 
I  tell  thee,  I  have  more  than  all  you  three. 
At  these  ten  angels. 

K.  Hen.  I  wonder  how  thou  comest  by  all  this  gold. 
How  many  benefices  hast  thou,  priest  ? 

2  This  sentence,  in  the  old  copies,  is  given  to  Huntington. 

3  Passage  was  a  game  at  tables— so  Steevens.    But  this 
tells  us  nothing.    Passage  was  a  game  at  dice,  played  with 
three  dice,  and  with  only  two  persons.    The  caster  throws 
continually  till  he  has  thrown  doublets  under  ten,  and  then 
he  is  out  and  loses ;   or  doublets  above  ten,  and  then  he 
passes  and  wins  ;  high  runners  are  most  requisite  for  this 
game,  such  as  will  rarely  run  any  other  chance  than. four, 
five,  or  six,  by  which  means,  if  the  caster  throws  doublets, 
he  scarcely  can  throw  oUL 


ACT  IV.  — SCENE  I. 


105 


Sir  John.  'Faith,  but  one.  Dost  wonder  how  I  come 
by  gold  ?  I  wonder  rather  how  poor  soldiers  should 
have  gold  :  for  I'll  tell  thee,  good  fellow,  we  have  ev- 
ery day  tithes,  offerings,  christenings,  weddings,  buri- 
als ;  and  you  poor  snakes  come  seldom  to  a  booty. 
I'll  speak  a  proud  word  :  I  have  but  one  parsonage; 
Wrotham  ;  'tis  better  than  the  bishopric  of  Roches- 
ter ;  there's  ne'er  a  hill,  heath,  nor  down,  in  all  Kent, 
hut  'tis  in  my  parish  ;  Barrham-down,  Cobham-down, 
Gad's-hill,  Wrotham-hill,  Black-heath,  Cocks'-heath, 
Birchen-wood  —  all  pay  me  tithe.  Gold,  quoth-a  ?  ye 
pass  not  for  that. 

Stiff.  Harry,  you  are  out ;  now,  parson,  shake  the 

dice. 

Sir  John.  Set,  set;  I'll  cover  ye;  at  all.  A  plague 
on't,  I  am  out :  the  devil,  and  dice,  and  a  wench;  who 
will  trust  them  ? 

Suff.  Say'st  thou  so,  priest  ?  set  fair;  at  all  for  once. 
K.  Hen.  Out,  sir  ;  pay  all. 

Sir  John.  Sir,  pay  me  angel  gold ; 

I'll  none  of  your  cracked  French  crowns  nor  pistolets, 
Pay  me  fair  angel  gold,  as  I  pay  you. 
K.  Hen.  No  cracked  French  crowns  [do  you  say]  ? 

I  hope  to  see 
More  cracked  French  crowns  ere  long. 

Sir  John..  Thou  mean'st  of  Frenchmen's  crowns, 

when  the  king's  in  France. 
Hunt.  Set  round  ;  at  all. 

Sir  John.  Pay  all :  this  is  some  luck. 

K.  Hen.  Give  me  the  dice  ;  'tis  I  must  shred  the 
priest.  At  all,  Sir  John. 

Sir  John.  The  devil  and  all  is  yours.     At  that. 
'Sdeath  !  what  casting's  this  ? 
Suff.  Well  thrown,  Harry,  i'faith. 
K.  Hen.  I'll  cast  better  yet. 

Sir  John.  Then  I'll  be  hanged.    Sirrah,  hast  thou 
not  given  thy  soul  to  the  devil  for  casting  ? 
K.  Hen.  I  pass  for  all. 
Sir  John.  Thou  passest  all  that  e'er  I  played  with- 
Sirrah,  dost  thou  not  cog,  nor  foist,  nor  slurr  ?     [al : 
K.  Hen.  Set,  parson,  set ;  the  dice  die  in  my  hand. 
When,  parson,  when?  what,  can  ye  find  no  more  ? 
Already  dry  ?  was't  yoij  bragged  of  your  store  ? 
Sir  John.  All's  gone  but  that. 
Hunt.  What,  half  a  broken  angel  ? 

Sir  John.  Why,  sir,  'tis  gold. 
K.  Hen.  Yea,  and  I'll  cover  it. 

Sir  John.  The  devil  give  ye  good  on't !  I  am  blind. 
You  have  blown  me  up. 

K.  Hen.  Nay,  tarry,  priest ;  you  shall  not  leave  u: 
Do  not  these  pieces  fit  each  other  well  ?  [yet : 

Sir  John.  What  if  they  do  ? 
K.  Hen.  Thereby  begins  a  tale  :  — 

There  was  a  thief,  in  face  much  like  Sir  John, 
But  'twas  not  he  —  that  thief  was  all  in  green  — 
Met  me  last  day  on  Black-heath,  near  the  park ; 
With  him  a  woman.    I  was  all  alone 
And  weaponless  ;  my  boy  had  all  my  tools, 
And  was  before,  providing  me  a  boat. 
Short  tale  to  make,  Sir  John  —  the  thief,  I  mean- 
Took  a  just  hundred  pound  in  gold  from  me. 
I  stormed  at  it,  and  swore  to  be  revenged 
If  e'er  we  met ;  he,  like  a  lusty  thief, 
Brake  with  his  teeth  this  angel  just  in  two, 
To  be  a  token  at  our  meeting  next, 
Provided  I  should  charge  no  officer 
To  apprehend  him,  but  at  weapon's  point 


lecover  that,  and  what  he  had  beside. 
Well  met,  Sir  John  :  betake  ye  to  your  tools, 
By  torchlight ;  for,  master  parson,  you  are  he 
That  had  my  gold. 

Sir  John.  'Zounds  !  I  won  it  in  play,  in  fair  square 

lay,  of  the  keeper  of  Eltham-park  ;  and  that  I  will 

maintain  with  this  poor  whyniard.    Be  you  two  hon- 

st  men  to  stand  and  look  upon  us  and  let  us  alone, 

and  neither  part  ? 

K.  Hen.  Agreed ;  I  charge  ye  do  not  budge  a  foot. 
Sir  John,  have  at  ye ! 

Sir  John.  Soldier,  'ware  your  sconce. 

As  they  are  preparing  to  engage,  enter  BUTLER,  and 
draws  his  sword  to  part  them. 

But.  Hold,  villain,  hold  !    My  lords,  what  do  ye 

To  see  a  traitor  draw  against  the  king  ?  [mean, 

Sir  John.  The  king  ?    God's  will !  I'm  in  a  proper 

pickle. 
K.  Hen.  Butler,  what  news  ?  why  dost  thou  trouble 

us? 

But.  Please  it, your  majesty,  it  is  break  of  day, 
And  as  I  scouted  near  to  Islington, 
The  gray-eyed  morning  gave  me  glimmering 
Of  armed  men  coming  down  Highgate-hill, 
Who,  by  their  course,  are  coasting  hitherward. 

K.  Hen.  Let  us  withdraw,  my  lords  ;  prepare  our 
To  charge  the  rebels,  if  there  be  such  cause,    [troops 
For  this  lewd  priest,  this  devilish  hypocrite, 
That  is  a  thief,  a  gamester,  and  what  not, 
Let  him  be  hanged  up  for  exampie:s  sake. 

Sir  John.  Not  so,  my  gracious  sovereign.    I  con- 
fess I  am  a  frail  man —  flesh  and  blood  as  other  are  ; 
but  set  my  imperfections  aside,  ye  have  not  a  taller 
man,  nor  a  truer  subject  to  the  crown  and  state,  than 
Sir  John  of  Wrotham  is. 
K.  Hen.  Will  a  true  subject  rob  his  king  ? 
Sir  John.  Alas  !  'twas  ignorance  and  want,  my  gra- 
cious liege. 

K.  Hen.  'Twas  want  of  grace.    Why,  you  should 
To  season  others  with  good  document ;      [be  as  salt 
Your  lives,  as  lamps  to  give  the  people  light ; 
As  shepherds,  not  as  wolves  to  spoil  the  flock : 
Go  hang  him,  Butler. 

But.  Didst  thou  not  rob  me  ? 

Sir  John.  I  must  confess  I  saw  some  of  your  gold  ; 
but,  my  dread  lord,  I  am  in  no  humor  for  death :  God 
wills  that  sinners  live  :  do  not  you  cause  me  to  die. 
Once  in  their  lives  the  best  may  go  astray, 
And  if  the  world  say  true,  yourself,  my  liege, 
Have  been  a  thief. 

K.  Hen.  I  do  confess  I  have, 

But  I  repent  and  have  reclaimed  myself. 

Sir  John.  So  will  I  do,  if  you  will  give  me  time. 
K.  Hen.  Wilt  thou  ?    My  lords,  will  you  be  sure- 
ties? 

Hunt.  That, when  he  robs  again, he  shall  be  hanged. 
Sir  John.  I  ask  no  more. 

K.  Hen.  And  we  will  grant  thee  that. 

Live  and  repent,  and  prove  an  honest  man  ; 
Which,  when  I  hear,  and  safe  return  from  France, 
I'll  give  thee  living :  till  when,  take  thy  gold, 
But  spend  it  better  than  at  cards  or  wine, 
For  better  virtues  fit  that  coat  of  thine. 

Sir  John.  Vivat  rex,  et  currat  lex.  My  liege,  if  ye 
have  cause  of  battle,  ye  shall  see  Sir  John  bestir  him- 
self in  your  quarrel.  [Exeunt. 


106 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE. 


SCENE  II.  —  A  Field  of  Battle  near  London. 

Alarum.  Enter  King  HENRY,  SUFFOLK,  HUNTING-TON  ; 
Sir  JOHN  bringing  in  ACTON,  BEVERLEY,  and  MUR- 
I.EY,  Prisoners. 

K.  Hen.  Bring  in  those  traitors,  whose  aspiring 
Thought  to  have  triumphed  in  our  overthrow,  [minds 
But  now  ye  see,  base  villains,  what  success 
Attends  ill  actions  wrongfully  attempted. 
Sir  Roger  Acton,  thou  retain'st  the  name 
Of  knight,  and  shouldst  be  more  discreetly  tempered 
Than  join  with  peasants  ;  gentry  is  divine, 
But  thou  hast  made  it  more  than  popular. 

Acton.  Pardon,  my  lord ;  my  conscience  urged  me 
to  it. 

K.  Hen.  Thy  conscience  !    then  thy  conscience  is 

corrupt, 

For  in  thy  conscience  thou  art  bound  to  us, 
And  in  thy  conscience  thou  shouldst  love  thy  country ; 
Else  what's  the  difference  betwixt  a  Christian 
And  the  uncivil  manners  of  the  Turk  ? 

Bee.  We  meant  no  hurt  unto  your  majesty, 
But  reformation  of  religion. 

K.  Hen.  Reform  religion  ?  was  it  that  you  sought  ? 
I  pray  who  gave  you  that  authority  ? 
Belike,  then,  we  do  hold  the  sceptre  up, 
And  sit  within  the  throne  but  for  a  cipher. 
Time  was,  good  subjects  would  make  known  their 
And  pray  amendment,  not  enforce  the  same,    {grief, 
Unless  their  king  were  tyrant ;  which  I  hope 
You  can  not  justly  say  that  Harry  i»- 
What  is  that  other  ? 

Suff.  A  malt-man,  my  lord, 

And  dwelling  in  Dunstable,  as  he  says. 

K.  Hen.  Sirrah,  what  made  you  leave  your  barley- 
To  come  in  armor  thus  against  your  king  ?  [broth, 

Mur.  Fie  !  paltry,  paltry,  to  and  fro,  in  and  out  up- 
on occasion,  what  a  world  is  this  !  Knighthood,  my 
liege  ;  'twas  knighthood  brought  me  hither ;  they  told 
me  I  had  wealth  enough  to  make  my  wife  a  lady. 

K.  Hen.  And  so  you  brought  those  horses  which 

we  saw 

Trapped  all  in  costly  furniture,  and  meant 
To  wear  these  spurs  when  you  were  knighted  once  ? 

Mur.  In  and  out  upon  occasion,  I  did. 

K.  Hen.  In  and  out  upon  occasion,  therefore, 
You  shall  be  hanged,  and  in  the  stead  of  wearing 
These  spurs  upon  your  heels,  about  your  neck 
They  shall  bewray  your  folly  to  the  world. 

Sir  John.  In  and  out  upon  occasion,  that  goes  hard. 

Mur.  Fie !  paltry,  paltry,  to  and  fro.  Good  my 
liege,  a  pardon  ;  I  am  sorry  for  my  fault. 

K.  Hen.  That  comes  too  late :  but  tell  me,  went 
Beside  Sir  Roger  Acton,  upon  whom  [there  none 
You  did  depend  to  be  your  governor  ? 

Mur.  None,  my  lord,  but  Sir  John  Oldcastle. 

K.  Hen.  Bears  he  a  part  in  this  conspiracy  ? 

Acton.  We  looked,  my  lord,  that  he  would  meet  us 
here. 

K.  Hen.  But  did  he  promise  you  that  he  would 
come? 

Acton.  Such  letters  we  received  forth  of  Kent. 

Enter  the  Bishop  of  ROCHESTER. 

Bith.  Where  is  my  lord  the  king  ?    Health  to  your 
grace. 


Examining,  my  lord,  some  of  these  rebels, 
It  is  a  general  voice  among  them  all, 
That  they  had  never  come  into  this  place, 
But  to  have  met  their  valiant  general, 
The  good  Lord  Cobham,  as  they  title  him : 
Whereby,  my  lord,  your  grace  may  now  perceive 
His  treason  is  apparent,  which  before 
He  sought  to  color  by  his  flattery. 

K.  Hen.  Now,  by  my  royalty,  I  would  have  sworn, 
But  for  his  conscience,  which  I  bear  withal, 
There  had  not  lived  a  more  true-hearted  subject. 

Bish.  It  is  but  counterfeit,  my  gracious  lord, 
And  therefore  may  it  please  your  majesty 
To  set  your  hand  unto  this  precept  here, 
By  which  we'll  cause  him  forthwith  to  appear, 
And  answer  this  by  order  of  the  law. 

K.  Hen.  Not  only  that,  but  take  commission 
To  search,  attach,  imprison,  and  condemn, 
This  most  notorious  traitor  as  you  please. 

Bish.  It  shall  be  done,  my  lord,  without  delay. 
So  now  I  hold,  Lord  Cobham,  in  my  hand, 
That  which  shall  finish  thy  disdained  life. 

[A fide  and  exit. 

K.  Hen.  I  think  the  iron  age  begins  but  now, 
Which  learned  poets  have  so  often  taught, 
Wherein  there  is  no  credit  to  be  given 
To  either  words,  or  looks,  or  solemn  oaths  : 
For  if  there  were,  how  often  hath  he  sworn, 
How  gently  tuned  the  music  of  his  tongue, 
And  with  what  amiable  face  beheld  he  me, 
When  all,  God  knows,  was  but  hypocrisy ! 

Enter  COBHAM. 

Cob.  Long  life  and  prosperous  reign  unto  my  lord ! 

K.  Hen.  Ah !  villain,  canst  thou  wish  prosperity, 
Whose  heart  includeth  naught  but  treachery  ? 
I  do  arrest  thee  here  myself,  false  knight, 
Of  treason  capital  against  the  state. 

Cob.  Of  treason,  mighty  prince  ?   your  grace  mis- 
takes, 
I  hope  it  is  but  in  the  way  of  mirth. 

K.  Hen.  Thy  neck  shall  feel  it  is  in  earnest  shortly! 
Dar'st  thou  intrude  into  our  presence,  knowing 
How  heinously  thou  hast  offended  us  ? 
But  this  is  thy  accustomed  deceit. 
Now,  thou  perceivest  thy  purpose  is  in  vain, 
With  some  excuse  or  other  thou  wilt  come 
To  clear  thyself  of  this  rebellion. 

Cob.  Rebellion,  good  my  lord  ?    I  know  of  none. 

K.  Hen.  If  you  deny  it,  here  is  evidence  : 
See  you  these  men  ?  You  never  counselled 
Nor  offered  them  assistance  in  their  wars  ? 

Cob.  Speak,  sirs ;  not  one,  but  all :  I  crave  no  favor ! 
Have  ever  I  been  conversant  with  you  ? 
Or  written  letters  to  encourage  you  ? 
Or  kindled  but  the  least  or  smallest  part 
Of  this  your  late  unnatural  rebellion  ? 
Speak,  for  I  dare  the  uttermost  you  can. 

Mur.  In  and  out  upon  occasion,  I  know  you  not. 

K.  Hen.  No  ?  didst  thou  not  say  that  Sir  John  Old- 
castle 
Was  one  with  whom  you  purposed  to  have  met  ? 

Mur.  True,  I  did  say  so,  but  in  what  respect  ?  — 
Because  I  heard  it  was  reported  so. 

K.  Hen.  Was  there  no  other  argument  but  that  ? 

Acton.  To  clear  my  conscience  ere  I  die,  my  lord, 
I  must  confess  we  have  no  other  ground, 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  IV. 


107 


But  only  rumor  to  accuse  this  lord, 
Which  now  I  see  was  merely  fabulous. 

K.  Hen.  The  more  pernicious  you  to  taint  him,  then, 
Whom  you  know  was  not  faulty,  yea  or  no. 

Cob.  Let  this,  my  lord,  which  1  present  your  grace, 
Speak  for  my  loyalty.    Read  these  articles, 
And  then  give  sentence  of  my  life  or  death. 

K.  Hen.  Earl  Cambridge,  Scroop,  and  Grey,  cor- 
rupted 

With  bribes  from  Charles  of  France,  either  to  win 
My  crown  from  me,  or  secretly  contrive 
My  death  by  treason  !     Is't  possible  ? 

Cob.  There  is  the  platform  —  and  their  hands,  my 
Each  severally  subscribed  to  the  same.  [lord, 

K.  Hen.  Oh,  never-heard-of.  base  ingratitude  ! 
Even  those  I  hug  within  my  bosom  most, 
Are  readiest  evermore  to  sting  my  heart. 
Pardon  me,  Cobham,  I  have  done  thee  wrong  ; 
Hereafter  I  will  live  to  make  amends. 
Is,  then,  their  time  of  meeting  so  near  at  hand? 
We'll  meet  with  them  but  little  for  their  ease, 
If  God  permit.    Go,  take  these  rebels  hence  : 
Let  them  have  martial  law ;  but  as  for  thee, 
Friend  to  thy  king  and  country,  still  be  free  ! 

[Exeunt  King  HENRY  and  COBHAM. 

Mur.  Be  it  more  or  less,  what  a  world  is  this  ! 
Would  I  had  continued  still  of  the  order  of  knaves, 
And  ne'er  sought  knighthood,  since  it  costs  so  dear. 
Sir  Roger,  I  may  thank  you  for  it  all. 

Acton.  Now  'tis  too  late  to  have  it  remedied, 
I  pr'ythee,  Murley,  do  not  urge  me  with  it. 

Hunt.  Will  you  away,  and  make  no  more  to-do  ? 

Mur.  Fie  !  paltry,  paltry,  to  and  fro,  as  occasion 
serves  ;  if  you  be  so  hasty,  take  my  place. 

Hunt.  No,  good  sir  knight,  e'en  take  it  for  yourself. 

Mur.  I  could  be  glad  to  give  my  betters  place. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  Room  in  Lord  COBHAM'S  House  in 
Kent.i 

Enter  CAMBRIDGE,  SCROOP,  and  GREY.  They  sit  down 
at  a  Table.  King  HENRY,  COBHAM,  and  other  Lords, 
listening  at  the  door. 

Cam.  In  mine  opinion,  Scroop  hath  well  advised : 
Poison  will  be  the  only  aptest  mean, 
And  fittest  for  our  purpose,  to  despatch  him. 

Grey.  But  yet  there  may  be  doubt  in  the  delivery ; 
Harry  is  wise,  and  therefore,  earl  of  Cambridge, 
I  judge  that  way  not  so  convenient. 

Scroop.  What  think  ye,  then,  of  this  ?     I  am  his 
And  unsuspected  nightly  sleep  with  him.  [bedfellow, 
What  if  I  venture  in  those  silent  hours, 
When  sleep  hath  sealed  up  all  mortal  eyes, 
To  murder  him  in  bed  ?    How  like  ye  that  ? 

Cam.  Herein  consists  no  safety  for  yourself, 
And  you  disclosed,  what  shall  become  of  us  ? 
But  this  day,  as  ye  know,  he  will  aboard  — 
The  wind's  so  fair  —  and  set  away  for  France : 
If,  as  he  goes,  or  entering  in  the  ship, 
It  might  be  done  —  then  were  it  excellent. 

Grey.  Why,  any  of  these,  or  if  you  will,  I'll  cause 

1  This  scene,  in  previous  editions,  made  the  opening  scene 
of  the  fifth  act,  but  improperly,  as  it  would  then  have  shown 
Cobham  arrested  by  the  bishop  before  having  assisted  at  the 
detection  of  the  conspirators.  I  have  transposed  several  of 
the  scenes  in  the  fourth  and  fifth  acts,  which  were  out  of 
place  in  old  editions. 


A  present  sitting  of  the  council,  wherein 
I  will  pretend  some  matter  of  such  weight, 
As  needs  must  have  his  royal  company ; 
And  so  despatch  him  in  his  council-chamber. 

Cam.  Tush  !  yet  I  hear  not  anything  to  purpose. 
I  wonder  that  Lord  Cobham  stays  so  long ;  — 
His  counsel  in  this  case  would  much  avail  us. 

Scroop.  What,  shall  we  rise  thus,  and  determine 
nothing  ? 

[  The  King  advances  uith  his  Lords. 

K.  Hen.  That  were  a  shame,  indeed  :  no,  sit  again, 
And  you  shall  have  my  counsel  in  this  case. 
If  you  can  find  no  way  to  kill  the  king, 
Then  you  shall  see  how  I  can  furnish  ye. 
Scroop's  way,  by  poison,  was  indifferent, 
But  yet,  being  bedfellow  to  the  king, 
And  unsuspected,  sleeping  in  his  bosom, 
In  mine  opinion  that's  the  likelier  way ; 
For  such  false  friends  are  able  to  do  much, 
And  silent  night  is  treason's  fittest  friend. 
Now,  Cambridge,  in  his  setting  hence  for  France, 
Or  by  the  way,  or  as  he  goes  aboard, 
To  do  the  deed  —  that  was  indifferent  too, 
But  somewhat  doubtful. 

Marry,  Lord  Grey  came  very  near  the  point  — 
To  have  the  king  at  council,  and  there  murder  him, 
As  Caesar  was  among  his  dearest  friends. 
Tell  me,  oh  tell  me,  you  bright  honor's  stains, 
For  which  of  all  my  kindnesses  to  you 
Are  ye  become  thus  traitors  to  your  king, 
And  France  must  have  the  spoil  of  Harry's  life  ? 

All.  Oh  !  pardon  us,  dread  lord. 

K.  Hen.  How  !  pardon  ye  ?  that  were  a  sin  indeed. 
Drag  them  to  death,  which  justly  they  deserve  : 
And  France  shall  dearly  buy  this  villany, 
So  soon  as  we  set  footing  on  her  breast. 
God  have  the  praise  for  our  deliverance  !  — 
And  next,  our  thanks,  Lord  Cobham,  unto  thee, 
True,  perfect  mirror  of  nobility.  \Exeitnt. 

SCENE  IV.  — Kent.     Court  before  Lord  COBHAM'S 
House. 

Enter  Bishop  of  ROCHESTER,  Lord  Warden  of  the 
Cinque  Ports,  CROMER,  Lady  COBHAM,  and  Attend- 
ants. 

Bish.  I  tell  ye,  lady,  'tis  not  possible 
But  you  should  know  where  he  conveys  himself; 
And  you  have  hid  him  in  some  secret  place. 

Lady  Cob.  My  lord,  believe  me,  as  I  have  a  soul, 
I  know  not  where  my  lord,  my  husband,  is. 

Bish.  Go  to,  go  to  ;  you  are  a  heretic, 
And  will  be  forced  by  torture  to  confess, 
If  fair  means  will  not  serve  to  make  you  tell. 

Lady  Cob.  My  husband  is  a  noble  gentleman, 
And  need  not  hide  himself  for  any  fact 
That  e'er  I  heard  of;  therefore  wrong  him  not. 

Bish.  Your  husband  is  a  dangerous  schismatic, 
Traitor  to  God,  the  king,  and  commonwealth  ; 
And  therefore,  Master  Cromer,  sheriff  of  Kent, 
I  charge  you  take  her  to  your  custody, 
And  seize  the  goods  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle 
To  the  king's  use  :  let  her  go  in  no  more, 
To  fetch  so  much  as  her  apparel  out ; 
There  is  your  warrant  from  his  majesty. 

Lord  War.  Good  my  lord  bishop,  pacify  your  wrath 
Against  the  lady. 


108 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE. 


Bisk.  Then  let  her  confess 

Where  Oldcastle,  her  husband,  is  concealed. 

Lord  War.  I  dare  engage  mine  honor  and  my  life, 
Poor  gentlewoman,  she  is  ignorant 
And  innocent  of  all  his  practices 
If  any  evil  by  him  be  practised. 

Bish.  If,  my  lord  warden  ?  Nay,  then  I  charge  you 
That  all  the  cinque-ports  whereof  you  are  chief, 
Be  laid  forthwith,  that  he  escape  us  not. 
Show  him  his  highness'  warrant,  master  sheriff. 

Lnrd  War.  I  am  sorry  for  the  noble  gentleman. 

Bish.  Peace  !  here  he  comes  :  now  do  your  office, 
sir. 
Enter  COBHAM  and  HARPOOL. 

Cob.  Harpool,  what  business  have  we  here  in  hand  ? 
What  makes  the  bishop  and  the  sheriff  here  ? 
I  fear  my  coming  home  is  dangerous  : 
I  would  I  had  not  made  such  haste  to  Cowling. 

Har.  Be  of  good  cheer,  my  lord :  if  they  be  foes, 
We'll  scramble  shrewdly  with  them ;  if  they  be  friends, 
They  are  welcome. 

Crom.  Sir  John  Oldcastle,  Lord  Cobham,  in  the 
king's  name,  I  arrest  you  of  high-treason. 

Cob.  Treason,  Master  Cromer? 

Har.  Treason,  master  sheriff?  what  treason  ? 

Cob.  Harpool,  I  charge  thee  stir  not,  but  be  quiet. 
Do  ye  arrest  me  of  treason,  master  sheriff? 

Bish.  Yea,  of  high-treason,  traitor,  heretic  ! 

Cob.  Defiance  in  his  face  that  calls  me  so  ! 
I  am  a  loyal  gentleman  ;  as  true 
Unto  his  highness  as  my  proudest  enemy. 
The  king  shall  witness  my  late  faithful  service, 
For  safety  of  his  sacred  majesty. 

Bish.  What  thou  art,  the  king's  hand  shall  testify : 
Show  him,  lord  warden. 

Cob.  Jesu  defend  me  ! 

Is't  possible  your  cunning  could  so  temper 
The  princely  disposition  of  his  mind, 
To  sign  the  damage  of  a  loyal  subject  ? 
Well,  the  best  is,  it  bears  an  antedate, 
Procured  by  my  absence  and  your  malice. 
But  I,  since  that,  have  showed  myself  as  true 
As  any  churchman  that  dare  challenge  me. 
Let  me  be  brought  before  his  majesty : 
If  he  acquit  me  not,  then  do  your  worst. 

Bish.  We  are  not  bound  to  do  kind  offices 
For  any  traitor,  schismatic,  or  heretic: 
The  king's  hand  is  our  warrant  for  our  work, 
Who  is  departed  on  his  way  for  France, 
And  at  Southampton  doth  repose  this  night. 

Har.  0  that  thou  and  I  were  within  twenty  miles 
of  it,  on  Salisbury  plain  !  I  would  lose  my  head  if 
thou  brought'st  thy  head  hither  again.  [Aside. 

Cob.  My  lord  warden  o'  the  cinque-ports,  and  lord 
of  Rochester,  ye  are  joint  commissioners :  favor  me 
so  much  on  my  expense,  to  bring  me  to  the  king. 

Bish.  What,  to  Southampton  ? 

Cob.  Thither,  my  good  lord  ; 

And  if  he  do  not  clear  me  of  all  guilt, 
And  all  suspicion  of  conspiracy, 
Pawning  his  princely  warrant  for  my  truth  — 
I  ask  no  favor,  but  extremes!  torture. 
Bring  me,  or  send  me  to  him,  good  my  lord ; 
Good  my  lord  warden,  master  sheriff,  entreat. 

[  They  both  entreat  for  him. 
Come  hither,  lady  ;  nay,  sweet  wife,  forbear 


To  heap  one  sorrow  on  another's  neck. 

'Tis  grief  enough  falsely  to  be  accused, 

And  not  permitted  to  acquit  myself: 

Do  not  thou,  with  thy  kind,  respective  tears, 

Torment  thy  husband's  heart  that  bleeds  for  thee, 

But  be  of  comfort.    God  hath  help  in  store 

For  those  that  put  assured  trust  in  him. 

Dear  wife,  if  they  commit  me  to  the  Tower, 

Come  up  to  London  to  your  sister's  house  ; 

That,  being  near  me,  you  may  comfort  me. 

One  solace  find  I  settled  in  my  soul  — 

That  I  am  free  from  treason's  very  thought : 

Only  my  conscience,  for  the  gospel's  sake, 

Is  cause  of  all  the  troubles  I  sustain. 

Lady  Cob.  O,  my  dear  lord,  what  shall  betide  of  us  ? 
You  to  the  Tower,  and  I  turned  out  of  doors  ; 
Our  substance  seized  unto  his  highness'  use, 
Even  to  the  garments  'longing  to  our  backs. 

Har.  Patience,  good  madam,  things  at  worst  will 

mend, 
And  if  they  do  not,  yet  our  lives  may  end. 

Bish.  Urge  it  no  more  ;  for  if  an  angel  spake, 
I  swear  by  sweet  Saint  Peter's  blessed  keys, 
First  goes  he  to  the  Tower,  then  to  the  stake  ! 

Crom.  But,  by  your  leave,  this  warrant  doth  not 
To  imprison  her.  [stretch 

Bish.  No,  turn  her  out  of  doors, 

Even  as  she  is,  and  lead  him  to  the  Tower, 
With  guard  enough,  for  fear  of  rescuing. 

Lady  Cob.  O  God  requite  thee,  thou  blood-thirsty 
man  ! 

Cob.  May  it  not  be,  my  lord  of  Rochester  ?  — 
Wherein  have  I  incurred  your  hate  so  far 
That  my  appeal  unto  the  king's  denied  ? 

Bish.  No  hate  of  mine,  but  power  of  holy  church, 
Forbids  all  favor  to  false  heretics. 

Cob.  Your  private  malice,  more  than  public  power, 
Strikes  most  at  me  ;  but  with  my  life  it  ends. 

Har.  [aside] .  0  that  I  had  the  bishop  in  that  fear 
That  once  I  had  his  sumner  —  by  ourselves  ! 

Crom.  My  lord,  yet  grant  one  suit  unto  us  all, 
That  this  same  ancient  servingman  may  wait 
Upon  my  lord,  his  master,  in  the  Tower. 

Bish.  This  old  iniquity,  this  heretic, 
That,  in  contempt  of  our  church  discipline, 
Compelled  my  sumner  to  devour  his  process  ? 
Old  ruffian  past-grace,  upstart  schismatic, 
Had  not  the  king  prayed  us  to  pardon  you, 
You  had  fried  for't,  you  grizzled  heretic  ! 

Har.  'Sblood  !  my  lord  bishop,  you  wrong  me  ;  I 
am  neither  heretic  nor  puritan,  but  of  the  old  church. 
I'll  swear,  drink  ale,  kiss  a  wench,  go  to  mass,  eat 
fish  all  Lent,  and  fast  Fridays  with  cakes  and  wine, 
fruit  and  spicery;  —  shrive  me  of  my  old  sins  afore 
Easter,  and  begin  new  before  Whitsuntide. 

Crom.  A  merry,  mad,  conceited  knave,  my  lord. 

Har.  That  knave  was  simply  put  upon  the  bishop. 

Bish.  Well,  God  forgive  him,  and  I  pardon  him: 
Let  him  attend  his  master  in  the  Tower, 
For  I  in  charity  wish  his  soul  no  hurt. 

Cob.  God  bless  my  soul  from  such  cold  charity ! 

Bish.  To  th'  Tower  with  him ;  and  when  my  leisura 
I  will  examine  him  of  articles.  [serves 

Look,  my  lord  warden,  as  you  have  't  in  charge, 
The  sheriff,  perform  his  office. 

Lord  War.  Ay,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  Lord  Warden,  CROMER,  and  Lord  COBHAJC. 


ACT  V.— SCENE  I. 


109 


Enter, frvm  Lord  COBHAM'S  House,  Sumner  with  Books. 

Rish.  What  bring'st  thou  here?  what ! — books  of 
heresy  ? 

Sum.  Yea,  my  lord,  here's  not  a  Latin  book, 
No,  not  so  much  as  Our  Lady's  psalter; 
Here's  the  Bible,  the  Testament,  the  Psalms  in  metre, 
The  Sick  Man's  Salve,  the  Treasury  of  Gladness  — 
All  English  ;  no,  not  so  much  but  the  almanac's  Eng- 
lish. 

Bish.  Away  with  them !   to  the  fire  with  them, 
Now  fie  upon  these  upstart  heretics  !  [Clun  ! 

All  English  !  burn  them,  burn  them  quickly,  Clun  ! 

Har.  But  do  not,  sumner,  as  you'll  answer  it ;  for 
I  have  there  English  books,  my  lord,  that  I'll  not 
part  withal  for  your  bishopric :  Bevis  of  Hampton, 
Oiclglass,  the  Friar  and  the  Boy,  Ellen  of  Rumming, 
Robin  Hood,1  and  other  such  godly  stories,  which,  if 
ye  burn,  by  this  flesh  I'll  make  ye  drink  their  ashes 
in  Saint  Marget's  ale.  [Exeunt  Bishop  of  ROCHESTER, 
Lady  COBHAM,  HARPOOL,  and  Sumner. 


ACT    V. 

SCENE  I.  —  The  entrance  of  the  Tower. 
Enter  the  Bishop  of  ROCHESTER,  attended. 

1  Serv.  Is  it  your  honor's  pleasure  we  shall  stay, 
Or  come  back  in  the  afternoon  to  fetch  you  ? 

Bish.  Now  have  ye  brought  me  here  unto  the  Tow- 
You  may  go  back  unto  the  porter's  lodge,  [er, 

Where,  if  I  have  occasion  to  employ  you, 
I'll  send  some  officer  to  call  you  to  me. 
Into  the  city  go  not,  I  command  you : 
Perhaps  I  may  have  present  need  to  use  you. 

2  Serv.  We  will  attend  your  honor  here  without. 

3  Serv.  Come,  we  may  have  a  quart  of  wine  at  the 
Rose  at  Barking, and  come  back  an  hour  before  he'll  go. 

1  Serv.  We  must  hie  us,  then. 

3  Serv.  Let's  away.  [Exeunt. 

Bish.  Ho,  master  lieutenant ! 

Enter  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower. 

Lieut.  Who  calls  there  ? 

Bish.  A  friend  of  yours. 

Lieut.  My  lord  of  Rochester  !  your  honor's  wel- 
come. 

Bish.  Sir,  here  is  my  warrant  from  the  council, 
For  conference  with  Sir  John  Oldcastle, 
Upon  some  matter  of  great  consequence. 

Lieut.  Ho.  Sir  John  ! 

Har.  [within] .  Who  calls  there  ? 

Lieut.  Harpool,  tell  Sir  John,  my  lord  of  Rochester 
Comes  from  the  council  to  confer  with  him. 
I  think  you  may  as  safe  without  suspicion 
As  any  man  in  England,  as  I  hear, 
For  it  was  you  most  labored  his  commitment. 

Bish.  I  did,  and  naught  repent  it,  I  assure  you. 

Enter  Lord  COBHAM  and  HARPOOL. 

Master  lieutenant,  I  pray  you,  give  us  leave, 
I  must  confer  here  with  Sir  John  a  little. 
Lieut.  With  all  my  heart,  my  lord.        [Ex.  Lieut. 

i  This  was  all  the  popular  literature  of  that  day.  The 
ncrvingman  of  my  Lord  Cobham  had  quite  a  comprehensive 
library. 


Har.  [aside] .  My  lord,  be  ruled  by  me,  take  this 
While  it  is  offered,  and,  upon  my  life  [occasion, 
Your  lordship  will  escape. 

Cob.  No  more,  I  say : 

Peace,  lest  he  should  suspect  it. 

Bish.  Sir  John, 

I  come  to  you  from  the  lords  o'  the  council 
To  know  if  you  do  yet  recant  your  errors. 

Cob.  My  lord  of  Rochester,  on  good  advice, 
I  see  my  error  ;  but  yet  understand  me  ; 
I  mean  not  error  in  the  faith  I  hold, 
But  error  in  submitting  to  your  pleasure. 
Therefore,  your  lordship,  without  more  ado, 
Must  be  a  means  to  help  me  to  escape. 

B-ish.  What  mean's!  thou,  heretic? 
Dar'st  thou  but  lift  thy  hand  against  my  calling? 

Cob.  No,  not  to  hurt  you  for  a  thousand  pound. 

Har.  Nothing  but  to  borrow  your  upper  garment  a 
little:  not  a  word  more  ;  peace,  for  waking  the  chil- 
dren. There,  put  them  on  ;  despatch,  my  lord  ;  the 
window  that  goes  out  into  the  leads  is  sure  enough: 
as  for  you,  I'll  bind  you  surely  in  the  inner  room. 

[Carries  the  Bishop  in,  and  returns. 

Cob.  This  is  well  begun  ;  God  send  us  happy  speed, 
Hard  shift  you  see  men  make  in  time  of  need. 

[Puts  on  the  Bishop's  cloak. 

Re-enter  the  Bishop  of  ROCHESTER'S  Servants. 

1  Serv.  I  marvel  that  my  lord  should  stay  so  long. 

2  Serv.  He  hath  sent  to  seek  us,  I  dare  lay  my  life. 

3  Serv.  We  come  in  good  time ;  see  where  he  is 
coming. 

Har.  I  beseech  you,  good  my  lord  of  Rochester, 
Be  favorable  to  my  lord  and  master. 

Cob.  The  inner  rooms  be  very  hot  and  close, 
I  do  not  like  this  air  here  in  the  Tower. 

Har.  His  case  is  hard,  my  lord. — You  shall  safely* 
get  out  of  the  Tower,  but  I  will  down  upon  them :  in 
which  time  get  you  away.  Hard  under  Islington  wait 
my  coming :  I  will  bring  my  lady  ready  with  horses 
to  get  hence.  [Aside.'] 

Cob.  Fellow,  go  back  again  unto  thy  lord, 
And  counsel  him.  — 

Har.  Nay,  my  good  lord  of  Rochester, 
I'll  bring  you  to  St.  Alban's,  through  the  woods, 
I  warrant  you. 

Cob.  Villain,  away. 

Har.  Nay,  since  I  am  past  the  Tower's  liberty, 
You  part  not  so.  [He  draws. 

Cob.  Clubs,  clubs,  clubs. 

1  Sere.  Murther,  murther,  murther. 

[  They  set  upon  HARPOOL. 

2  Serv.  Down  with  him. 

Har.  Out,  you  cowardly  rogues.    [COBHAM  escapes. 

Enter  Lieutenant  of  the  Tower,  and  Warder. 

Lieut.  Who  is  so  bold  as  dare  to  draw  a  sword 
So  near  unto  the  entrance  of  the  Tower  ? 

1  Serv.  This  ruffian,  servant  to  Sir  John  Oldcastle, 
Was  like  to  have  slain  my  lord. 

Lieut.  Lay  hold  on  him. 

Har.  Stand  off,  if  you  love  your  puddings. 

»  Subsequent  editions  read  "  scarcely."— Harpool  is  a  littie 
confused.  It  may  be  scarcely,  or  safely,  but  either  word  re- 
quires you  to  make  allowances  for  the  disorder  of  the  sen- 
tence. 


110 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE. 


J)ish.  [within].  Help,  help,  help,  master  lieutenant ; 

help .' 
Lieut.  Who's  that  within  ?  some  treason  in  the 

Tower, 
Upon  my  life  ; — look  in  ;  who's  that  who  calls? 

[Exit  one  of  the  Warders  within,  and  re-enter 

with  the  Bishop  of  ROCHESTER,  bound. 
Lieut.  Without  your  cloak,  my  lord  of  Rochester  ? 
Har.  There,  now  I  see  it  works  ;  then  let  me  speed, 
For  now's  the  fittest  time  to  'scape  away. 

[Exit  HARPOOL. 

Lieut.  Why  do  you  look  so  ghastly  and  affrighted  ? 
Bish.  Oldcastle,  that  foul  traitor  and  his  man, 
When  you  had  left  me  to  confer  with  him, 
Took,  bound,  and  stript  me,  as  you  see  me  now, 
And  left  me  lying  in  this  inner  chamber  j  — 
And  so  departed. 

1  Serv.  And  I 

Lieut.  And  you  now  say  that  the  lord  Cobham's 
Did  here  set  on  you,  like  to  murder  you?  [man 

1  Serv.  And  so  he  did. 

Bish.  It  was  upon  his  master  then  he  did, 
That,  in  the  brawl,  the  traitor  might  escape. 
Lieut.  Where  is  this  Harpool? 

2  Serv.  Here  he  was,  even  now. 
Lieut.  Fled  !  —  Where? can  you  tell? 
Bish.  They  are  both  escaped  ! 

Lieut.  Since  it  so  happens  that  he  is  escaped, 
I  am  glad  you  are  a  witness  of  the  same  : 
It  might  have  else  been  laid  unto  my  charge, 
That  I  had  been  consenting  to  the  fact. 

Bish.  Come ! 

Search  shall  be  made  for  him  with  expedition, 
The  haven's  laid  that  he  shall  not  escape, 
And  hue  and  cry  continue  throughout  England, 
To  find  this  damned,  dangerous  heretic.         [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— A  High  Road  near  St.  Alban's. 

Enter  Sir  JOHN  of  Wrotham,  and  DOLL. 

Sir  John.  Come,  Doll,  come ;  be  merry,  wench. 
Farewell,  Kent ;  we  are  not  for  thee.  Be  lusty,  my 
lass.  Come !  for  Lancashire.  We  must  nip  the 
bung,1  for  these  crowns. 

Doll.  Why,  is  all  the  gold  spent  already,  that  you 
had  the  other  day  ? 

Sir  John.  Gone,  Doll,  gone  ;  flown,  spent,  vanished ; 
the  devil,  drink,  and  dice,  have  devoured  all. 

Doll,  You  might  have  left  me  in  Kent,  till  you  had 
been  better  provided. 

Sir  John.  No,  Doll,  no ;  Kent's  too  hot,  Doll,  Kent's 
too  hot ;  the  weathercock  of  Wrotham  will  crow  no 
longer ;  we  have  plucked  him ;  he  has  lost  his  feath- 
ers ;  —  I  have  pruned  him  bare  ;  left  him  thrice  ;  he 
is  moulted  ;  he  is  moulted,  wench. 

Doll.  I  might  have  gone  to  service,  again ;  old 
Master  Harpool  told  me  he  would  provide  me  a  mis- 
tress. 

Sir  John,  Peace,  Doll,  peace ;  come,  mad  wench, 
I'll  make  thee  an  honest  woman  ;  we'll  into  Lanca- 
shire to  our  friends ;  the  truth  is,  I'll  marry  thee ;  we 
want  but  a  little  money,  and  money  we  will  have,  I 
warrant  thee :  stay,  who  comes  here  ?  some  Irish 
villain,  methinks,  that  has  slain  a  man,  and  now  is 
rifling  of  him.  Stand  close,  Doll ;  we'll  see  the  end. 

1  Bung — a  pickpocket 


Enter  an  Irishman,  with  his  dead  Master.    He  lays  him 
down  and  rifles  him. 

Irish.  Alas,  poe  master,  Sir  Richard  Lee:  be  St. 
Patrick,  I'se  rob  and  cut  dy  trote,  for  dy  shain,  and 
dy  mony,  and  dygold  ring.  Be  me  truly,  I'se  love  do 
well,  but  now  dow  be  kill,  dow  be  bastely2  knave. 

Sir  John.  Stand,  sirrah,  what  art  thou  ? 

Irish..  Be  St.  Patrick,  mester,  I'se  poor  Irishman; 
I'se  a-  leufter.3 

Sir  John.  Sirrah,  sirrah,  you're  a  damned  rogue ; 
you  have  killed  a  man  here,  and  rifled  him  of  all  that 
he  has.  'Sblood,.  you  rogue,  deliver,  or  I'll  not  leave 
you  so  much  as  a  hair  above  your  shoulders,  you 
whorson  Irish  dog.  [Robs  him. 

Irish.  We's  me  !  Be  St.  Patrick,  I'se  kill  my  mes- 
ter for  his  shain  and  his  ring,  and  now's  be  rob  of  all. 
Me's  undo. 

Sir  John.  Avaunt,  you  rascal ;  go,  sirrah;  be  walk- 
ing !  Come,  Doll,  the  devil  laughs  when  one  thief 
robs  another.  Come,  wench,  we'll  to  St.  Alban's,  and 
revel  in  our  bower,  my  brave  girl. 

Doll.  0,  thou  art  old4 Sir  John,  when  all's  done, 
i'faith.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— St.  Alban's.     The  Entrance  of  a  Carri- 
er's Inn. 

Enter  Host  and  Irishman. 

Irish.  Be  me  tro',  mester,  I'se  poor  Irishman. 
I'se  want  ludging ;  I'se  have  no  mony ;  I'se  starve  and 
cold ;  good  mester,  give  hur  some  meat ;  I'se  famish 
and  tie. 

Host.  'Faith,  fellow,  I  have  no  lodging,  but  what  I 
keep  for  my  guests.  As  for  meat,  thou  shall  have  as 
much  as  there  is ;  and  if  thou  wilt  lie  in  the  barn 
there's  fair  straw,  and  room  enough. 

Irish.  I'se  tank  my  mester,  heartily. 

Host.  Ho,  Robin ! 

Enter  ROBIW. 

Robin.  Who  calls  ? 

Host.  Show  this  poor  Irishman  to  the  barn  ; — go, 
sirrah.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  Carrier  and  KATE. 

Car.  Who's  within,  here  ?  —  who  looks  to  the  hor- 
ses ?  Uds  heart,  here's  fine  work :  the  hens  in  the 
maunger,  and  the  hogs  in  the  litter.  A  bots  'found 
you  all !  here's  a  house  well  looked  to,  i'faith. 

Kate.  Mas  gaff  Club,  I'se  very  cawd. 

Cor.  Get  in,  Kate,  get  in  to  the  fire,  and  warm  thee. 
John  Ostler ! 

Enter  Ostler. 

Oat.  What,  gaffer  Club  !  welcome  to  St.  Alban's  ! 
How  do  all  our  friends  in  Lancashire  ? 

Cor.  Well,  God-a-mercy,  John  !  —  How  does  Tom  ? 
Where  is  he  ? 

Ostl.  Tom's  gone  from  hence  ;  he's  at  the  Three 
Horse-loaves,  at  Stony-Stratford.  How  does  old  Dick 
Dun? 

Cor.  Uds  heart,  old  Dun  has  bin  moyr'd  in  a  slough 
in  Brick-hill  lane :  a  plague  'found  it !  yonder's  such 
abomination-weather  as  was  never  seen. 

2  I  have  substituted  one  epithet  here,  for  another,  in  order 
to  avoid  a  sheer  brutality. 

3  What  a  "leufter"  is,  nobody  can  say  at  this  day.    "  Leu- 
terer"  was  a  thie?  a  vagabond.    The  Irishman  is  probably 
willing  to  confess  himself  both,  that  he  may  escape  the  more 
heinous  charge  of  murder.  *  Query :  bold  J 


ACT  V.— SCENE  VIII. 


Ill 


Ostl.  Ud's  heart !  thief!  'a  shall  have  one  half  peck 
of  pease  and  oats  more  for  that,  as  I  am  John  Ostler ; 
he  has  been  ever  as  good  a  jade  as  ever  travelled. 

Car.  'Faith,  well  said,  old  Jack  ;  thou  art  the  old 
lad  stiU. 

Ostl.  Come,  gafier  Club,  unload,  unload,  and  get  in 
to  supper.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.—  The  same.  A  Room  in  the  Carrier's  Inn. 
Enter  Host,  Lord  COBHAM,  and  HAHPOOL. 

Host.  Sir,  you  are  welcome  to  this  house,  and  to 
such  as  is  here,  with  all  my  heart:  but  I  fear  your 
lodging  will  be  the  worst.  1  have  but  two  beds,  and 
they  are  both  in  one  chamber,  and  the  carrier  and  his 
daughter  lie  in  the  one,  and  you  and  your  wife  must 
lie  in  the  other. 

C'b.  'Faith,  sir,  for  myself  I  do  not  greatly  press,1 
My  wife  is  weary,  and  would  be  at  rest, 
For  we  have  travelled  very  far  to-day  ; 
We  must  be  content  with  such  as  you  have. 

Host.  But  I  can  not  tell  what  to  do  with  your  man. 

Har.  What  ?  hast  thou  never  an  empty  room  in  thy 
house  for  me  ? 

Host.  Not  a  bed,  in  troth.  There  came  a  poor  Irish- 
man, and  I  lodged  him  in  the  barn,  where  he  has  fair 
straw,  although  he  have  nothing  else. 

Har.  Well,  mine  host,  I  pry'thee  help  me  to  a  pair 
of  clean  sheets,  and  I'll  go  lodge  with  him. 

Host.  By  the  mass,  that  thou  shall ;  as  good  a  pair 
of  hempen  sheets  were  never  lain  in  :  come.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.  —  The  same.    A  Street. 
Enter  Mayor,  Constable,  and  Watch. 

Mayor.  What !  have  you  searched  the  town  ? 

Con.  All  the  town,  sir ;  we  have  not  left  a  house 
unsearched  that  uses  to  lodge. 

Mayor.  My  lord  of  Rochester  was  then  deceived, 
Or  ill-informed  of  Sir  John  Oldcastle  : 
Or,  if  he  came  this  way,  he's  past  the  town  ; 
He  could  not  else  have  'scaped  you  in  the  search. 

Con.  The  privy  watch  hath  been  abroad  all  night, 
And  not  a  stranger  lodgeth  in  the  town 
But  he  is  known  ;  only  a  lusty  priest 
We  found  in  bed  with  a  young,  pretty  wench, 
That  says  she  is  his  wife,  yonder  at  the  Shears  : 
But  we  have  charged  the  host  with  his  forthcoming 
To-morrow  morning. 

Mayor.  What  think  you  best  to  do  ? 

Con.  Faith,  master  mayor,  here's  a  few  straggling 
houses  beyond  the  bridge,  and  a  little  inn,  where  car- 
riers use  to  lodge,  although  I  think  surely  he  would 
never  lodge  there  :  but  we'll  go  search,  and  the  rather, 
because  there  came  notice  to  the  town  the  last  night 
of  an  Irishman,  that  had  done  a  murder,  whom  we 
are  to  make  search  for. 

Mayor.  Come,  then,  I  pray  you,  and  be  circum- 
spect. [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  —  The  same.    Bffore  the  Carrier's  Inn. 
Enter  Constable  and  Officer. 

Con.  First  beset  the  house,  before  you  begin  to 
search. 

l  "Pass,"  in  the  old  editions. 

8 


O$.  Content ;  every  man  take  a  several  place. 

[Noise  uithin 

Voice  [icithin] .  Keep ;  keep ;  strike  him  down 
there  j  down  with  him  ! 

Enter  from  the  Inn,  the  Mayor  and  Constable,  with 
the  Irishman  in  HARPOOL'S  apparel. 

Con.  Come,  you  villanous  heretic,  tell  us  where 
your  master  is. 

7mA.  Vat  mester  ? 

Mayor.  Vat  mester,  you  counterfeit  rebel  ?  This 
shall  not  serve  your  turn. 

Irish.  Be  Sent  Patrick,  I  ha'  no  mester. 

Con.  Where's  the  lord  Cobham,  Sir  John  Oldcastle, 
that  lately  escaped  out  of  the  Tower  ? 

Irish.  Vat  lort  Cobham  ? 

Mayor.  You  counterfeit ;  this  shall  not  serve  you  ; 
we'll  torture  you  ;  we'll  make  you  confess  where  that 
arch  heretic  is.  Come,  bind  him  fast. 

Irish.  Ahone,  ahone,  ahune,  a  cree  ! 

Con.  Ahone!  you  crafty  rascal  ?  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.—  The  same.    The  Yard  of  the  Inn. 
Enter  Lord  COBHAM,  in  his  nightgown. 

Cob.  Harpool ! 

I  hear  a  marvellous  noise  about  the  house  :  — 
God  warrant  us,  I  fear  we  are  pursued  ! 
What  !  Harpool ! 

Har.  [within] .  Who  calls,  there  ? 

Cob.  'Tis  I ! 

Dost  thou  not  hear  a  noise  about  the  house  ? 

Har.  Yes,  marry  do  I.  Zounds,  I  can  not  find  my 
hose.  This  Irish  rascal  that  lodged  with  me  all 
night,  hath  stolen  my  apparel,  and  has  left  me  noth- 
ing but  a  lousy  mantle,  and  a  pair  of  brogues.  Get 
up,  get  up  ! 

And  if  the  carrier  and  his  wench  be  'sleep, 
Change  you  with  him,  as  he2  hath  done  with  me, 
And  see  if  we  can  'scape.  [Exit  Lord  COBHAM. 

SCENE  VIII.  —  The  same.  Noises  at  intervals,  about 
the  House.  Then  enter  HARPOOL,  in  the  Irishman's 
apparel,  Wie  Mayor,  Constable,  and  Officers,  meeting 
him. 

Con.  Stand  close  ;  here  comes  the  Irishman  that  did 
The  murder  ;  —  by  all  tokens  this  is  he ! 

Mayor.  And  perceiving  the  house  beset,  would  get 
Stand,  sirrah  !  [away. 

Har.  What  art  thou  that  bidd'st  me  stand  ? 

Con.  I  am  the  officer,  and  am  come  to  search  for 
An  Irishman  ;  —  such  a  villain  as  thyself  j  — 
Thou'st  murdered  a  man,  this  last  night,  by  the  high- 
way. 

Har.  'Sblood,  constable,  art  mad?  am  I  an  Irish- 
man? 

Mayor.  Sirrah,  we'll  find  you  an  Irishman,  before 
We  part.  —  Lay  hold  upon  him. 

Con.  Make  him  fast !  Oh  !  bloody  rogue  ! 

[  The  Officers  seize  him. 

Enter  Lord  and  Lady  COBHAM,  in  the  habits  of  the  Car- 
rier and  his  Daughter. 

Cob.  What,  will  these  ostlers  sleep  all  day  ? 
8  The  Irishman. 


112 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE. 


Good  morrow,  good  morrow.    Come,  wench,  come : 
Saddle,  saddle  ;  now,  afore  God,  two  fair  days,  ha  ? 

Con.  Who  goes  there  ? 

Mayor.  O  'tis  the  Lancashire  carrier,  let  them  pass. 

Cob.  What,  will  nobody  open  us  the  gates  here  ? 
Come,  let's  into  stable  to  look  to  our  capons. 

[Exeunt  Lord  and  Lady  COBHAM. 

Car.  (irithin].  Host!  why,  ostler!  zooks  !  here's 
such  abomination  company  of  boys :  A  pox  of  this 
pigstye  at  the  house  end ;  it  fills  all  the  house  full  of 
fleas.  Ostler,  ostler ! 

Enter  Ostler. 

Ostl.  Who  calls  there  ?  what  would  you  have  ? 

Car.  [u-ithin] .  Zooks  !  do  you  rob  your  guests  ? 
Do  you  lodge  rogues,  and  slaves,  and  scoundrels,  ha  ? 
They  ha1  stolen  our  clothes,  here  :  why,  ostler  ? 

Ostl.  A  murrain  choke  you  !  what  a  bawling  you 
keep  ! 

Enter  Host. 

Host.  How  now  ?  What  would  the  carrier  have  ? 
Look  up,  there ! 

Ostl.  They  say  the  man  and  the  woman  that  lay  by 
them  have  stolen  their  clothes. 

Host.  What,  are  the  strange  folks  up,  that  came  in 
yesternight  ? 

Con.  What,  mine  host,  up  so  early? 

Host.  What,  master  mayor,  and  master  constable  ? 

May.  We  are  come  to  seek  for  some  suspected  per- 
And  such  as  here  we  found  have  apprehended,  [sons, 
Enter  Carrier  and  KATE,  in  Lord  and  Lady  COBHAM'S 
Apparel. 

Con.  Who  comes  here  ? 

Car.  Who  comes  here  ?  A  plague  'found  'em  ! 
You  bawl,  quoth-a?  odds  heart,  I'll  forswear  your 
house  :  you  lodged  a  fellow  and  his  wife  by  us,  that 
ha'  run  away  with  our  'parel,  and  left  us  such  gew- 
gaws here  !  Come,  Kate  ;  come  to  me ;  thou's  diz- 
ard  i'faith. 

Mayor.  Mine  host,  know  you  this  man? 

Host.  Yes,   master  mayor,  I'll  give  my  word  for 

him. 
Why,  neighbor  Club,  how  comes  this  gear  about  ? 

Kale.  Now  a  foul  on't !  I  can  not  make  this  gew- 
gaw stand  on  my  head. 

Con.  How  came  this  man  and  woman  thus  attired  ? 

Host.  Here  came  a  man  and  woman  hither  this  last 
Which  I  did  take  for  substantial  people,  [night, 

And  lodged  all  in  one  chamber  by  these  folks  : 
Methinks  they  have  been  so  bold  to  change  apparel, 
And  gone  away  this  morning  ere  these  rose. 

Mayor.  It  was  that  traitor  Oldcastle  that  thus 
Escaped  us  ;  make  hue  and  cry  yet  after  him  j 
Keep  fast  that  trait'rous  rebel,  his  servant  there : 
'Farewell,  mine  host. 

Cor.  Come,  Kate  Owdham,  thou  and  I'se  trimly 
dizard. 

Kate.  I'faith,  neam  Club,  I'se  wot  ne'er  what  to  do ; 
I'se  'be  so  flouted  and  so  shouted  at ;  but,  by  the  mess, 
I'se  cry.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IX.  —  A  Wood  near  St.  Alban's. 
Enter  Lord  and  Lady  COBHAM,  disguised. 

Cob.  Come,  madam,  happily  escaped.    Here  let  us 
sit: 


This  place  is  far  remote  from  any  path ; 
And  here  awhile  our  weary  limbs  may  rest 
To  take  refreshing,  free  from  the  pursuit 
Of  envious  Rochester. 

Lady  Cob.  But  where,  my  lord, 

Shall  we  find  rest  for  our  disquiet  minds  ? 
There  dwell  untamed  thoughts  that  hardly  stoop 
To  such  abasement  of  disdained  rags  : 
We  were  not  wont  to  travel  thus  by  night, 
Especially  on  foot. 

Cob.  No  matter,  love ; 

Extremities  admit  no  better  choice  ; 
And,  were  it  not  for  thee,  say  froward  time 
Imposed  a  greater  task,  I  would  esteem  it 
As  lightly  as  the  wind  that  blows  upon  us. 
But,  in  thy  sufferance,  I  am  doubly  tasked ;  — 
Thou  wast  not  wont  to  have  the  earth  thy  stool, 
Nor  the  moist  dewy  grass  thy  pillow,  nor 
Thy  chamber  [walls]  to  be  the  wide  horizon. 

Lady  Cob.  How  can  it  seem  a  trouble,  having  you, 
A  partner  with  me,  in  the  worst  I  feel? 
No,  gentle  lord,  your  presence  would  give  ease 
To  death  itself,  should  he  now  seize  upon  me : 

[She  produces  some  bread  and 

cheese  and  a  bottle. 

Behold  what  my  foresight  hath  undertaken 
For  fear  we  faint ;  —  these  are  but  homely  cates ; 
Yet,  sauced  with  hunger,  they  may  seem  as  sweet 
As  greater  dainties  we  were  wont  to  taste. 

Cob.  Praise  be  to  Him,  whose  plenty  sends  both 
And  all  things  else  our  mortal  bodies  need  !         [this 
Nor  scorn  we  this  poor  feeding,  nor  the  state 
We  now  are  in  ;  for  what  is  it  on  earth, — 
Nay,  under  heaven,  —  continues  at  a  stay? 
Ebbs  not  the  sea,  when  it  hath  overflown  ? 
Follows  not  darkness,  when  the  day  is  gone  ? 
And  see  we  not,  sometimes,  the  eye  of  heaven 
Dimmed  with  o'er-flying  clouds  ?     There's  not  that 
Of  careful  nature,  or  of  cunning  art,  [work 

How  strong,  how  beauteous,  or  how  rich  it  be, 
But  falls  in  time  to  ruin.  Here,  gentle  madam, 
In  this  one  draught,  I  wash  my  sorrow  down. 

[Drinks. 

Lady  Cob.  And  I,  encouraged  with  your  cheerful 
Will  do  the  like.  [speech, 

Cob.  Pray  God,  poor  Harpool  come  ! 

If  he  should  fall  into  the  bishop's  hands, 
Or  not  remember  where  we  bade  him  meet  us, 
It  were  the  thing  of  all  things  else,  that  now 
Could  breed  revolt  in  this  new  peace  of  mind. 

Lady  Cob.  Fear  not,  my  lord,  he's  witty  to  devise, 
And  strong  to  execute  a  present  shift. 

Cob.  That  Power  be  still  his  guide  hath  guided  us. 
My  drowsy  eyes  wax  heavy ;  early  rising, 
Together  with  the  travel  we  have  had, 
Makes  me  that  I  could  gladly  take  a  nap, 
Were  I  persuaded  we  might  be  secure. 

Lady  Cob.  Let  that  depend  on  me  :  whilst  you  do 
I'll  watch,  that  no  misfortune  happen  us.         [sleep, 

Cob.  I  shall,  dear  wife,  but  too  much  trouble  thee. 

Lady  Cob.  Urge  not  that ; 
My  duty  binds  me,  and  your  love  commands. 
I  would  I  had  the  skill,  with  tuned  voice, 
To  draw  on  sleep  with  some  sweet  melody. 
But  imperfection,  and  unaptness1  too, 

I  The  impropriety  of  drawing  attention  to  their  place  ol 
shelter. 


ACT  V.— SCENE  XL 


113 


Are  both  repugnant :  fear  inserts1  the  one, 
The  other  nature  hath  denied  me  use. 
But  what  talk  I  of  means,  to  purchase  that 
Is  freely  happened  ?    Sleep,  with  gentle  hand, 
Hath  shut  his  eyelids.     O,  victorious  labor, 
How  soon  thy  power  can  charm  the  body's  sense  ! 
And  now  thou  likewise  climb'st  unto  my  brain, 
Making  my  heavy  temples  stoop  to  thee. 
Great  God  of  heaven,  from  danger  keep  us  free  ! 

[Falls  asleep. 

Enter  Sir  RICHAKD  LEE  and  his  Servants. 

Lee.  A  murder  cruelly3  done,  and  in  my  ground? 
Search  carefully :  if  anywhere  it  were, 
This  obscure  thicket  is  the  likeliest  place.  [Exit  Ser- 
vant, who  re-enters,  'bearing  a  dead  body. 

Serv.  Sir,  I  have  found  the  body  stiff  with  cold, 
And  mangled  cruelly  with  many  wounds. 

Lee.  Look,  if  thou  know'st  him ;  turn  his  body  up : 
Alack,  it  is  my  son  !  my  son  and  heir, 
Whom,  two  years  since,  I  sent  to  Ireland, 
To  practise  there  the  discipline  of  war ; 
And  coming  home  —  for  so  he  wrote  to  me  — 
Some  savage  heart,  some  bloody,  devilish  hand, 
Either  in  hate,  or  thirsting  for  his  coin, 
Hath  here  sluiced  out  his  blood.    Unhappy  hour ! 
Accursed  place  !  but  most  inconstant  fate, 
That  had  reserved  him  from  the  bullet's  fire, 
And  suffered  him  to  'scape  the  wood-kernes's  fury, 
Didst  here  ordain  the  treasure  of  his  life, 
Even  here  within  the  arms  of  tender  peace, 
To  be  consumed  by  treason's  wasteful  hand ! 
And,  which  is  most  afflicting  to  my  soul, 
That  this  his  death  and  murder  should  be  wrought 
Without  the  knowledge  by  whose  means  'twas  done. 

2  Serv.  Not  so,  sir  ;  I  have  found  the  authors  of  it. 
See  where  they  sit,  and  in  then-  bloody  fists 

The  fatal  instruments  of  death  and  sin. 

Lee.  Just  judgment  of  that  Power,  whose  gracious 
Loathing  the  sight  of  such  a  heinous  fact,  [eye, 

Dazzled  their  senses  with  benumbing  sleep, 
Till  their  unhallowed  treachery  was  known  !  — 
Awake,  ye  monsters  !  —  murderers,  awake  ! 
Tremble  for  horror  ;  blush,  you  can  not  choose, 
Beholding  this  inhuman  deed  of  yours. 

Cob.  What  mean  you,  sir,  to  trouble  weary  souls, 
And  interrupt  us  of  our  quiet  sleep  ? 

Lee.  0,  devilish  !    Can  you  boast  unto  yourselves 
Of  quiet  sleep,  having,  within  your  hearts, 
The  guilt  of  murder  waking,  that  with  cries 
Deafs  the  loud  thunder,  and  solicits  Heaven 
With  more  than  mandrakes'  shrieks,*  for  your  offence  ? 

Lady  Cob.  What  murder  ?    You  upbraid  us  wrong- 
fully. 

Lee.  Can  you  deny  the  fact  ?    See  you  not  here 
The  body  of  my  son  by  you  misdone  ? 
Look  on  his  wounds,  look  on  his  purple  hue  : 
Do  we  not  find  you  where  the  deed  was  done  ? 
Were  not  your  knives  fast  closed  in  your  hands  ? 
Is  not  this  cloth  an  argument  besides, 
Thus  stained  and  spotted  with  his  innocent  blood  ? 
These  speaking  characters,  were  there  nothing  else 
To  plead  against  ye,  would  convict  you  both. — 

1  "  Insists,"  perhaps. 

8  "  Closely"  is  the  word  in  previous  copies. 

3  The  kerne  was  the  Irish  light-armed  footaoldier. 

4  The  mandrake,  or  mandragora,  provoked  many  super- 
stitions.   It  was  said  to  shriek  when  torn  up. 


To  Hertford  with  them,  where  the  'size  is  now : 
Their  lives  shall  answer  for  my  son's  lost  life. 
Cob.  As  we  are  innocent,  so  may  we  speed. 
Lee.  As  I  am  wronged,  so  may  the  law  proceed. 

[Exeunt. 
SCENE  X.— St.  Alban's. 

Enter  the  Bishop  of  ROCHESTER,  Constable  of  St.  AJ- 
ban's,  with  Sir  JOHN,  DOLL,  and  the  Irishman  in 
HAHFOOL'S  Apparel. 

Bish.  What  intricate  confusion  have  we  here  ? 
Not  two  hours  since,  we  apprehended  one 
In  habit  Irish,  but  in  speech  not  so  ; 
And  now  you  bring  another,  that  in  speech 
Is  Irish,  but  in  habit  English :  yea, 
And  more  than  so  —  the  servant  of  that  heretic, 
Lord  Cobham. 

Irish.  Fait,  me  be  no  servant  of  de  Lort  Cobham ; 
me  be  Mackshane  of  Ulster. 

Bish.  Otherwise  called  Harpool  of  Kent :  go  to.  sir ; 
You  can  not  blind  us  with  your  broken  Irish. 

Sir  John.  Trust  me,  lord  bishop,  whether  Irish  or 

English, 

Harpool  or  not  Harpool,  I  leave  to  the  trial : 
But  sure  I  am,  this  man  by  face  and  speech, 
Is  he  that  murdered  young  Sir  Richard  Lee. 
I  met  him  presently  upon  the  fact, 
And  that  he  slew  his  master  for  that  gold, 
Those  jewels,  and  that  chain,  I  took  from  him. 

Bish.  Well,  our  affairs  do  call  us  back  to  London, 
So  that  we  can  not  prosecute  the  cause 
As  we  desire  to  do ;  therefore  we  leave 
The  charge  with  you,  to  see  they  be  conveyed 
To  Hertford  'sizes  :  both  this  counterfeit 
And  you,  Sir  John  of  Wrotham,  and  your  wench, 
For  you  are  culpable  as  well  as  they, 
Though  not  for  murder,  yet  for  felony. 
But  since  you  are  the  means  to  bring  to  light 
This  graceless  murder,  you  shall  bear  with  you 
Our  letters  to  the  judges  of  the  bench, 
To  be  your  friends  in  what  they  lawf  ly  may. 

Sir  John.  I  thank  your  lordship.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  XI.  —  Hertford.    A  Hall  of  Justice. 

Enter  Gaoler  and  Servants,  bringing  forth  Lord  COB- 
HAM  in  irons. 

Gaol.  Bring  forth  the  prisoners  ;  see  the  court  pre- 
The  justices  are  coming  to  the  bench :  [pared ; 

So,  let  him  stand ;  away  and  fetch  the  rest. 

[Exit  Servant. 

Cob.  0,  give  me  patience  to  endure  this  scourge, 
Thou  that  art  fountain  of  this  virtuous  stream ! 
And  though  contempt,  false  witness,  and  reproach, 
Hang  on  these  iron  gyves,  to  press  my  life 
As  low  as  earth,  yet  strengthen  me  with  faith, 
That  I  may  mount  in  spirit  above  the  clouds  ! 

Re-enter  Gaoler's  Servant,  bringing  in  Lady  COBHAM 

and  HARPOOL. 

Here  comes  my  lady.  Sorrow, 'tis  for  her  — 
Thy  wound  is  grievous  ;  else  I  scoff  at  thee. 
What !  and  poor  Harpool  ?  art  thou  i'th'  briars  too  ? 

Har.  I'faith,  my  lord,  I  am  in,  get  out  how  I  can.. 

Lady  Cob.  Say,  gentle  lord  —  for  now  we  are  alone 
And  may  confer  —  shall  we  confess  in  brief 
Of  whence  and  what  we  are,  and  so  prevent 
The  accusation  is  commenced  against  us  ? 


SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE. 


Co6.  What  will  that  help  us  ?  Being  known,  sweet 

love, 

We  shall  for  heresy  be  put  to  death, 
For  so  they  term  the  religion  we  profess. 
No,  if  we  die,  let  this  our  comfort  be, 
That  of  the  guilt  imposed  our  souls  are  free. 

Har.  Ay,  ay,  my  lord  !  Harpool  is  so  resolved  ; 
I  reck  of  death  the  less,  in  that  I  die 
Not  by  the  sentence  of  that  envious  priest. 

Lady  Cob.  Well,  be  it,  then,  according  as  Heaven 
please. 

Enter  the  Judge  of  Assize  and  Justices.  Mayor  of  St. 
Alban's,  Lord  and  Lady  Powis,  and  Sir  RICHARD 
LEE  ;  the  Judge  and  Justices  take  their  places  on  the 
Bench. 

Judge.  Now,  master  mayor,  what  gentleman  is  that 
You  bring  with  you  before  us  to  the  bench  ? 

May.  ['Tis]  the  Lord  Powis,  if  it  like  your  honor, 
And  this  his  lady,  travelling  toward  Wales  ; 
Who  —  for  they  lodged  last  night  within  my  house, 
And  my  lord  bishop  did  lay  wait  for  such  — 
Were  very  willing  to  come  on  with  me, 
Lest,  for  their  sakes,  suspicion  we  might  wrong. 

Judge.  We  cry  your  honor  mercy,  good  my  lord ; 
Will't  please  you  take  your  place  ?  Madam,  your  la- 
dyship 

May  here,  or  where  you  will,  repose  yourself, 
Until  this  business  now  in  hand  be  past. 

Lady  Pow.  I  will  withdraw  into  some  other  room, 
So  that  your  lordship  and  the  rest  be  pleased. 

Judge.  With  all  our  hearts :  attend  the  lady  there. 

Pow.  [aside  to  his  Wife).  Wife,  I  have  eyed  yon 

pris'ners  all  this  while, 
And  my  conceit  doth  tell  me  'tis  our  friend 
The  noble  Cobham  and  his  virtuous  lady. 

Lady  Pow.  I  think  no  less.  Are  they  [my  lord,  do 
Suspected  for  this  murder  ?  [you  think] 

Pow.  What  it  means 

I  can  not  tell,  but  we  shall  know  anon : 
Meantime,  as  you  pass  by  them,  ask  the  question  ; 
But  do  it  secret,  so  you  be  not  seen, 
And  make  some  sign,  that  I  may  know  your  mind. 

Lady  Pow.  My  Lord  Cobham  ?    Madam  ?     [As  she 
passes  over  the  stage  by  them.'] 

Cob.  No  Cobham  now,  nor. madam,  as  you  love  us, 
But  John  of  Lancashire,  and  Joan  his  wife. 

Lady  Pow.  O  tell,  what  is  it  that  our  love  can  do 
To  pleasure  you,  for  we  are  bound  to  you  ? 

Cob.  Nothing  but  this,  that  you  conceal  our  names  ; 
So,  gentle  lady,  pass  ;  —  for,  being  spied 

Lady  Pow.  My  heart  I  leave,  to  bear  part  of  your 
grief.  [Exit  Lady  Powis. 

Judge.  Call  the  prisoners  to  the  bar.     Sir  Richard 

Lee, 

What  evidence  can  you  bring  against  these  people, 
To  prove  them  guilty  of  the  murder  done  ? 

Lee.  This  bloody  towel,  and  these  naked  knives : 
Besides,  we  found  them  sitting  by  the  place 
Where  the  dead  body  lay  within  a  bush. 

Judge.  What  answer  you  why  law  should  not  pro- 
According  to  this  evidence  given  in,  [ceed 
To  tax  ye  with  the  penalty  of  death  ? 

Cob.  That  we  are  free  from  murder's  very  thought, 
And  know  not  how  the  gentleman  was  slain. 

1  Just.  How  came  this  linen  cloth  so  bloody,  then  ? 


Lady  Cab.  My  husband,  hot  with  travelling,  my 
His  nose  gushed  out  a-bleeding  ;  that  was  it.  [lord, 

2  Just.  But  how  came  your  sharp-edged  knives  un- 
sheathed ? 

Lady  Cob.  To  cut  such  simple  victual  as  we  had. 

Judge.  Say  we  admit  this  answer  to  these  articles, 
What  made  you  in  so  private,  dark  a  nook, 
So  far  remote  from  any  common  path, 
As  was  the  thick  where  the  dead  corpse  was  thrown  ? 

Cob.  Journeying,  my  lord,  from  London,  from  the 
Down  into  Lancashire,  where  we  do  dwell  —    [term, 
And  what  with  age  and  travel,  being  faint, 
We  gladly  sought  a  place  where  we  might  rest, 
Free  from  resort  of  other  passengers  ;  — 
And  so  we  strayed  into  that  secret  corner. 

Judge.  These  are  but  ambages1  to  drive  off  time, 
And  linger  justice  from  her  purposed  end. 

Enter  Constable  with  the  Irishman,  Sir  JOHN,  and 

DOLL. 
But  who  are  these  ? 

Const.  Stay  judgment,  and  release  these  innocents, 
For  here  is  he  whose  hand  hath  done  the  deed 
For  which  they  stand  indicted  at  the  bar  : 
This  savage  villain,  this  rude  Irish  slave  — 
His  tongue  already  hath  confessed  the  fact, 
And  here  is  witness  to  confirm  as  much. 

Sir  John.  Yes,  my  good  lord,  no  sooner  had  he 
His  loving  master  for  the  wealth  he  had,  [slain 

But  I  upon  the  instant  met  with  him : 
And  what  he  purchased  with  the  loss  of  blood, 
With  strokes  I  presently  bereaved  him  of ; 
Some  of  the  which  is  spent ;  the  rest  remaining, 
I  willingly  surrender  to  the  hands 
Of  old  Sir  Richard  Lee,  as  being  his  ; 
Besides,  my  good  lord  judge,  I  greet  your  honor 
With  letters  from  my  lord  of  Rochester. 

[Delivers  a  letter. 

Lee.  Is  this  the  wolf  whose  thirsty  throat  did  drink 
My  dear  son's  blood  ?    Art  thou  the  cursed  snake 
He  cherished,  yet  with  envious,  piercing  sting, 
Assailedst  him  mortally  ?    Wer't  not  that  the  law 
Stands  ready  to  revenge  thy  cruelty, 
Traitor  to  God,  thy  master,  and  to  me, 
These  hands  should  be  thy  executioner  ! 

Judge.  Patience,  Sir  Richard  Lee,  you  shall  have 

justice. 

The  fact  is  odious :  therefore  take  him  hence, 
And,  being  hanged  until  the  wretch  be  dead, 
His  body  after  shall  be  hanged  in  chains, 
Near  to  the  place  where  he  did  act  the  murder. 

Irish.  Pr'ythee,  lord  shudge,  let  me  have  mine  own 
clothes,  my  strouces2  there,  and  let  me  be  hanged  in 
a  wyth,  after  my  country  the  Irish  fashion. 

Judge.  Go  to,  away  with  him. 

[Exit  Gaoler  with  Irishman. 
And  now,  Sir  John, 

Although  by  you  this  murder  came  to  light, 
Yet  upright  law  will  not  hold  you  excused, 
For  you  did  rob  the  Irishman ;  by  which 
You  stand  attainted  here  of  felony : 
Besides,  you  have  been  lewd,  and  many  years 
Led  a  lascivious,  unbeseeming  life. 

Sir  John.  Oh,  but  Sir  John  repents,  and  he  will 
mend. 

1  "Ambages" — evasions,  subterfuges,  circumlocutions,  and 
sometimes  circumstances, 
a  Trowsers. 


ACT  V.— SCENE  XI. 


115 


Judge.  In  hope  thereof,  together  with  the  favor 
My  lord  of  Rochester  entreats  for  you, 
We  are  contented  that  you  shall  be  proved. 

Sir  John.  I  thank  your  lordship. 

Judge.  These  other  falsely  here 

Accused,  and  brought  in  peril  wrongfully, 
We  in  like  sort  do  set  at  liberty. 

Lee.  And  for  amends, 
Touching  the  wrong  unwittingly  I've  done, 
I  give  these  few  crowns. 

Judge.   Your  kindness  merits  praise.  Sir  Richard 

So  let  us  hence.  [Lee  : 

[Exeunt  all  but  Powis  and  COBHAM. 

Pow.  But  Powis  still  must  stay. 

There  yet  remains  a  part  of  that  true  love 
He  owes  his  noble  friend,  unsatisfied 
And  unperformed  ;  which  first  of  all  doth  bind  me 


To  gratulate  your  lordship's  safe  delivery : 

And  then  entreat,  that  since,  unlocked  for  thus 

We  here  are  met,  your  honor  will  vouchsafe 

To  ride  with  me  to  Wales,  where,  through  my  power 

Though  not  to  quittance  those  great  benefits 

I  have  received  of  you  —  yet  both  my  house, 

My  purse,  my  servants,  and  what  else  I  have, 

Are  all  at  your  command.    Deny  me  not : 

I  know  the  bishop's  hate  pursues  you  so, 

As  there's  no  safety  in  abiding  here. 

Cob.  'Tis  true,  my  lord,  and  God  forgive  him  for  it ! 

Pow.  Then  let  us  hence.     You  shall  be  straight 

provided 

Of  lusty  geldings :  and  once  entered  Wales, 
Well  may  the  bishop  hunt — but,  'spite  his  face, 
He  never  more  shall  have  the  game  in  chase  ! 

[Exeunt. 


THE  END  OF  SIR  JOHN  OLDCASTLE. 


INTRODUCTION 

TO 

THE  PURITAN  ;  OR,  THE  WIDOW  OF  WATLING  STREET. 


"  A  booke  called  the  Comtdie  of  the  Puritan  Wydowe" 
was  entered  at  Stationers'  hall,  by  G.  Eld,  August  6, 
1607.  The  first  published  edition  was  made  in  the 
same  year,  under  the  following  title  :  "  The  Puritaine, 
or  the  Widdow  of  Walling  Streete  :  acted  by  the 
children  of  Paules  :  written  by  W.  S."  It  was  in- 
cluded in  the  third  edition  of  Shakspeare's  works, 
nnd  was  ascribed  to  Shakspeare,  by  Gildon,  in  1702. 
The  English  critics,  of  recent  times,  have  uniformly 
rejected  the  pretension.  Malone  supposes  this  play 
to  have  been  written  by  one  William  Smith,  who  is 
known  as  the  author  of  three  plays  —  the  Palsgrave, 
the  Hector  of  Germany,  and  the  Freeman's  Honor. 
Mr.  Steevens  remarks  that,  "  though  Shakspeare  has 
ridiculed  the  Puritans,  in  his  '  All's  Well  that  Ends 
Well,'  and  '  Twelfth  Night,'  yet  he  seems  not  to  have 
had  the  smallest  share  in  the  present  comedy.  The 
"Uthor  of  it,  however,  was  well  acquainted  with  his 
plays,  as  appears  from  resemblances  already  pointed 


out."  Schlegel,  with  more  indulgence,  and  perhaps 
much  less  discrimination,  is  of  opinion  that  Shak- 
speare wrote  it.  To  account  for  its  manifest  discrep- 
ancy with  the  acknowledged  writings  of  Shakspeare, 
he  most  absurdly  supposes  that  the  great  dramatist, 
for  once  in  his  life,  conceived  the  idea  of  writing  a, 
play  in  the  manner  of  Ben  Jonson.  Mr.  Knight  prop- 
erly remarks,  that,  to  investigate  this  supposed  imi- 
tation, would  "  bring  us  to  the  conclusion  that '  The 
Puritan'  is  as  unlike  Ben  Jonson  as  it  is  unlike  Shak- 
speare." He  adds,  justly  :  "  If  it  possesses  little  of 
the  wit,  the  buoyancy,  the  genial  good  humor,  the 
sparkling  poetry,  the  deep  philosophy,  and  the  uni- 
versal characterization,  of  Shakspeare,  it  wants,  in 
the  same  degree,  the  nice  discrimination  of  shades 
of  character,  the  sound  judgment,  the  careful  man- 
agement of  the  plot,  the  lofty  and  indignant  satire, 
the  firm  and  gorgeous  rhetoric,  of  Jonson."  But  all 
this,  we  must  repeat,  relates  only  to  the  superior 


118 


INTRODUCTION. 


works  of  these  two  masters.  I  am  not  prepared  to 
regard  the  "  Puritan"  as  much,  if  anything,  below  the 
inferior  writings  of  Ben  Jonson  —  the  "New  Inn," 
for  example  —  in  all  that  relates  to  structure,  inven- 
tion, and  comic  situation.  No  such  comparison  can 
be  made  with  Shakspeare,  who.  in  thd  very  meanest 
of  his  acknowledged  and  unquestioned  writings,  is  so 
infinitely  beyond  this  performance,  as  to  make  any 
attempt  at  comparison  impertinent. 

But  the  very  maturity  and  continued  strength, 
which  everywhere  exist  in  Shakspeare,  are  among 
the  argum  -ias  which  prompt  the  belief  in  unacknowl- 
edged works  from  his  pen  ;  since,  we  can  scarcely 
suppose  him  to  have  reached  such  an  exquisite  per- 
fection of  his  powers  at  a  single  bound,  or  to  have 
retained  them  to  the  last  chapter  of  a  tolerably  ad- 
vanced life,  without  diminution  or  decay.  But  this 
belongs  to  the  g  neral  argument. 

The  estimate  of  Mr.  Knight,  in  regard  to  the  mer- 
its of"  The  Puritan,"  may  well  take  the  place  of  our 
own.  He  says  :  "  As  a  comedy  of  manners,  '  The 
Puritan'  is  at  once  feeble  and  extravagant.  The 
aii-  i.or  can  not  paint  classes,  in  painting  individuals. 
'  The  Puritan'  is  a  misnomer.  We  have  no  repre- 
sentation of  the  formal  manners  of  that  class.  The 
family  of  the  Widow  of  Watling  street  is  meant  to  be 
puritanical ;  but  it  is  difficult  to  discover  wherein  they 
differ  from  the  rest  of  the  world,  except  in  the  coarse 
exhibition  of  the  loose  morality  of  one  of  their  ser- 


vants, who  professes  to  lie,  though  he  swears  not, 
and  is  willing  to  steal,  if  the  crime  is  called  by  some 
gentler  name.  Yet  the  comedy  is  not  without  spirit 
and  interest.  The  events  are  improbable,  and  some 
of  the  intrigues  superfluous  ;  but  the  action  seldom 
lingers  ;  and,  if  the  characters  seem  unnatural,  they 
are  sufficiently  defined  to  enable  us  to  believe  that 
such  characters  did  exist,  and  might  have  been  cop- 
ied from  the  life  by  the  author."  Referring  to  the 
scene  in  the  house  of  the  gentleman  who  rescues 
Pyeboard  from  the  hands  of  the  bailiffs,  by  becoming 
accessory  to  the  stratagem  of  the  prisoner,  Mr. 
Knight  remarks  :  "  There  is,  no  doubt,  considerable 
truth  in  this  picture  ;  but  it  is  not  such  truth  as  we 
find  in  Shakspeare  ;  it  belongs  to  the  temporary  and 
the  personal,  not  to  the  permanent  and  the  universal. 
Such  is  the  characteristic  merit  of  the  whole  com- 
edy, whatever  merit  it  has." 

Of  this  character,  Pyeboard,  we  are  told  by  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Dyce,  in  his  valuable  edition  of  Peele's 
works,  that  George  Pyeboard  and  George  Peele  have 
the  same  meaning — "peel  signifying  a  board  with  a 
long  handle,  with  which  bakers  put  things  in  and  out 
of  the  oven."  It  would  seem,  then,  that  George  Peel 
sat  for  the  portrait  of  the  profligate  scholar,  to  the 
unknown  dramatist.  Peele  was  a  man  of  profligate 
habits,  and  has  published,  in  one  of  his  tracts,  two 
stories  of  his  own  tricks,  which  remind  us  of  a  couple 
of  the  stratagems  in  "  The  Puritan." 


THE  PURITAN; 

OR, 

THE  ¥IDO¥  OF  VATLING  STREET. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

Sii  GODFREY  PLUS,  brother-in-law  to  the  Widow  Plus. 

EDMOND,  son  to  the  Widow. 

Sir  OLIVER  MUCKHILL,  a  rich  city  knight,  and  suitor 
to  the  Widow. 

Sir  JOHN  PENNYDUB,  o  country  knight,  and  suitor  to 
Mary. 

Sir  ANDREW  TIPSTAFF,  a  courtier,  and  suitor  to  Fran- 
ces. 

GEORGE  PYEBOARD,  a  scholar. 

The  Sheriff  of  London. 

Captain  IDLE,  a  highwayman. 

PULTOCK,         )     , 

„  t  sheriff's  servants. 

RAVENSHAW,  )          * 

DOG  SON,  a  catchpole. 

Corporal  OATH,  a  vain-glorious  fellow. 

NICHOLAS  ST.  ANTLINGS,      ^  T    _    _.. 

SIMON  ST.  MARY-OVKRIES,  1  ^var^s  oLady  Plus, 

FRAILTY,  J       "^  Sir  Godfrey. 

PETER  SKIRMISH,  an  old  soldier. 

A  Nobleman. 

A  Gentleman  Citizen. 

Lady  PLUS,  a  citizen's  widow. 
FRANCES  and  MARY,  her  two  daughters. 

Sheriff's  Officers,  Keeper  of  the  Marshalsea  Prison, 
Musicians,  and  Attendants. 

SCENE,  — LONDOW. 


ACT    I. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Garden  behind  the  Widow's  House. 

Enter  the  Widow  PLUS,  FRANCES,  MARY,  Sir  GOD- 
FREY, and  EDMOND,  all  in  mourning  ;  EDMOND  in  a 
Cyprus  hat.1  The  Widow  wringing  her  hands,  and 
bursting  out  into  passion,  as  newly  come  from  the 
burial  of  her  husband. 

Wid.  Oh,  that  ever  I  was  born,  that  ever  I  was 
born  ! 

1  In  plain  terms,  a  hat  with  a  band  of  crape  around  it— a 
mourning  hat.    The  proper  spelling  should  be,  "  cypress." 


Sir  God.  Nay,  good  sister,  dear  sister,  sweet  sis- 
ter, be  of  good  comfort ;  show  yourself  a  woman  now 
or  never. 

Wid.  Oh,  I  have  lost  the  dearest  man,  I  have  buried 
the  sweetest  husband  that  ever  lay  by  woman. 

Sir  God.  Nay,  give  him  his  due,  he  was  indeed  an 
honest,  virtuous,  discreet,  wise  man.  He  was  my 
brother,  as  right  as  right. 

Wid.  O,  I  shall  never  forget  him,  never  forget  him ; 
he  was  a  man  so  well  given  to  a  woman.  Oh ! 

Sir  God.  Nay,  but  kind  sister,  I  could  weep  as  much 
as  any  woman ;  but,  alas,  our  tears  can  not  call  him 
again :  methinks  you  are  well  read,  sister,  and  know 
that  death  is  as  common  as  Homo,  a  common  name 

to  all  men. A  man  shall  be  taken  when  he's 

making  water. Nay,  did  not  the  learned  parson, 

Master  Pigman,  tell  us,  e'en  now,  that  all  flesh  is 
frail.  —  We  are  born  to  die.  —  Man  has  but  a  time: 
with  such  like  deep  and  profound  persuasions  ?  as  he 
is  a  rare  fellow  you  know,  and  an  excellent  reader 
And,  for  example  (as  there  are  examples  abundance) 
did  not  Sir  Humphrey  Bubble  die  t'other  day? 
There's  a  lusty  widow  !  Why,  she  cried  not  above 
half  an  hour.  For  shame  !  for  shame  !  Then  fol- 
lowed him  old  Master  Fulsome,  the  usurer :  there's  a 
wise  widow  ;  why  she  cried  ne'er  a  whit  at  all. 

Wid.  O  rank  not  me  with  those  wicked  women ;  I 
had  a  husband  outshined  'em  all. 

Sir  God.  Ay,  that  he  did,  i'faith  ;  he  outshined  'em 
all. 

Wid.  Dost  thou  stand  there  and  see  us  all  weep 
and  not  once  shed  a  tear  for  thy  father's  death  ?  oh, 
thou  ungracious  son  and  heir  thou  ! 

Edm.  Troth,  mother,  I  should  not  weep,  I'm  sure  ; 
I  am  past  a  child,  I  hope,  to  make  all  my  old  school- 
fellows laugh  at  me  ;  I  should  be  mocked,  so  I  should  ; 
pray,  let  one  of  my  sisters  weep  for  me,  I'll  laugh  as 
much  for  her  another  time  ? 

Wid.  O  thou  past-grace  thou  !  Out  of  my  sight,  thou 
graceless  imp !  thou  grievest  me  more  than  the  death 
of  thy  father.  O,  thou  stubborn  only  son  !  Hadst  thou 
such  an  honest  man  to  thy  father— that  would  deceive 
all  the  world  to  get  riches  for  thee  —  and  canst  thou 
not  afford  a  little  salt  water  ?  He  that  so  wisely  did 
quite  overthrow  the  right  heir  of  these  lands,  which 
now  you  respect  not :  up  every  morning  betwixt  four 
and  five ;  so  duly  at  Westminster  hall  every  term- 


120    THE  PURITAN  ;  OR,  THE  WIDOW  OF  WATLING  STREET. 

time,  with  all  his  cards  and  writings,  for  thee,  thou 
wicked  Absalom.  —  0,  dear  husband  ! 

Edm.  Weep,  quotha?  I  protest  I  am  glad  he's 
churched ;  —  for  now  he's  gone,  I  shall  spend  in 
quiet. 

Frances.  Dear  mother,  pray  cease  ;  half  your  tears 

suffice ;  — 

'Tis  time  for  you  to  take  truce  with  your  eyes :  — 
Let  ine  weep  now. 

Wid.  0,  such  a  dear  knight,  such  a  sweet  husband 
have  I  lost,  have  I  lost.  —  If  blessed  be  the  corse  the 
rain  rains  upon,1  he  had  it  pouring  down. 

Sir  God.  Sister,  be  of  good  cheer.  We  are  all  mor- 
tal ourselves  ;  I  come  upon  you  freshly  ;  I  ne'er  speak 
without  comfort.  Hear  me,  what  I  shall  say :  —  my 
brother  has  left  you  wealthy ;  you're  rich. 

Wid.  Oh ! 

Sir  God.  I  say,  you're  rich :  you  are  also  fair. 

Wid.  Oh ! 

Sir  God.  Go  to,  you  are  fair ;  you  can  not  smother 
it ;  beauty  will  come  to  light.  Nor  are  your  years  so 
far  entered  with  you,  but  that  you  will  be  sought  after, 
and  may  very  well  answer  another  husband.  The 
world  is  full  of  fine  gallants  ;  choice  enow,  sister ; 
for  what  should  we  do  with  all  our  knights,  I  pray  ?* 
but  to  marry  rich  widows,  wealthy  citizens'  widows ; 
lusty,  fair-browed  ladies  ?  Go  to,  be  of  good  com- 
fort, I  say  ;  leave  sobbing  and  weeping.  —  Yet  my 
brother  was  a  kind-hearted  man.  —  I  would  not  have 
the  elf  see  me  now  [aside],  —  Come,  pluck  up  a  wo- 
man's heart !  Here  stand  your  daughters,  who  be 
well  estated,  and  at  maturity  will  also  be  inquired 
after  with  good  husbands  :  so  all  these  tears  shall  be 
soon  dried  up,  and  a  better  world  than  ever.  —  What, 
woman  ?  you  must  not  weep  still !  he's  dead,  he's 
buried — yet  I  can  not  choose  but  weep  for  him.3 

Wid.  Marry  again !  —  Let  me  be  buried  quick, 

then ! 

And  that  same  part  o'  the  choir  whereon  I  tread, 
To  such  intent,  O  may  it  be  my  grave  ! 
And  that  the  priest  may  turn  his  wedding-prayers, 
Even  with  a  breath,  to  funeral  dust  and  ashes  ; 
0,  out  of  a  million  of  millions,  I  should  ne'er  find 
such  a  husband ;  he  was  unmatchable — unmatchable  : 
nothing  was  too  hot,  nor  too  dear  for  me.4    I  could 
not  speak  of  that  one  thing  that  I  had  not.    Besides, 
I  had  keys  of  all,  kept  all,  received  all,  had  money 
in  my  purse,  spent  what  I  would,  went  abroad  when 
I  would,  came  home  when  I  would,  and  did  all  what 
I  would.    O,  my  sweet  husband  !  I  shall  never  have 
the  like. 

Sir  God.  Sister,  never  say  so.  He  was  an  honest 
brother  of  mine  ;  and  so ;  and  you  may  light  upon  one 
as  honest  again,  or  one  as  honest  again  may  light 
upon  you ;  — that's  the  properer  phrase,  indeed. 

Wid.  Never  !  — O,  if  you  love  me,  urge  it  not : 
O,  may  I  be  the  by-word  of  the  world,  [kneels. 

The  common  talk  at  table  in  the  mouth 


i  The  old  proverb  has  it,  "  Happy  the  bride  that  the  sun 
shines  on ;  blessed  the  corse  the  clouds  rain  on." 

9  M  alone  suggests  that  this  may  have  been  meant  as  a  sneer 
at  the  multitude  of  knights  made  by  Ring  James  soon  after 
his  succession. 

3  The  same  expression  occurs  in  Hamlet,  spoken  by 
Ophelia. 

•*  This  is  unsatisfactorily  explained  by  some  of  the  com- 
mentators to  be  a  proverbial  phrase.  I  should  prefer  to 
suppose  it  an  error  of  the  press.  It  may  properly  read,  "  too 
good,  nor  too  dear." 


Of  every  groom  and  waiter,  if  ever  more 
I  entertain  the  carnal  suit  of  man. 

Mary.  I  must  kneel  down,  for  fashion,  too. 

Frances.  And  I,  whom  never  man  as  yet  hath 

scaled, 

Even  in  this  depth  of  general  sorrow,  vow 
Never  to  marry,  to  sustain  such  loss, 
As  a  dear  husband  seems  to  be,  once  dead. 

Mary.  I  loved  my  father  well,  too  ;  but  to  say, 
Nay  vow,  I  would  not  marry  for  his  death, 
Sure  I  should  speak  false  latin,  should  I  not? 
I'd  as  soon  vow  never  to  come  in  bed  : 
Tut !  women  must  live  by  the  quick,  and  not  by  the 
dead. 

Wid.  Dear  copy  of  my  husband,  let  me  kiss  thee : 
[Kisses  her  Husband's  picture. 
How  like  him  is  this  model !  this  brief  picture 
Quickens  my  tears :  my  sorrows  are  renewed 
At  this  fresh  sight. 

Sir  God.  Sister 

Wid.  Away ! 

All  honesty  with  him  is  turned  to  clay ! 

0  my  sweet  husband !  O 

Frances.  My  dear  father  ! 

[Exeunt  Widow  and  FRAHCES. 

Mary.  Here's  a  puling,  indeed  !  I  think  my  mother 
weeps  for  all  the  women  that  ever  buried  husbands  . 
for  if  from  time  to  time  all  the  widowers'  tears  in 
England  had  been  bottled  up,  I  do  not  think  all  would 
have  filled  a  three-halfpenny  bottle.  Alas  !  a  small 
matter  bucks  a  handkerchief;5  and  sometimes  the 
spittle  stands  too  nigh  Saint  Thomas-a-Waterings.s 
Well,  I  can  mourn  in  good  sober  sort  as  well  as  an- 
other ;  but  where  I  spend  one  tear  for  a  dead  father, 

1  could  give  twenty  kisses  for  a  quick  husband. 

[Exit  MART. 

Sir  God.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  old  Sir  Godfrey,  and 
thou  may'st  be  proud  on't,  thou  hast  a  kind,  loving 
sister-in-law.  How  constant,  how  passionate,  how 
full  of  April  the  poor  soul's  eyes  are  !  Well,  I  would 
my  brother  knew  on't :  he  should  then  know  what  a 
kind  wife  he  hath  left  behind  him.  Truth,  an  'twere 
not  for  shame  that  the  neighbors  at  the  next  garden 
should  hear  me  betwixt  joy  and  grief,  I  should  even 
cry  outright.  [Exit  Sir  GODFREY. 

Edm.  So ;  a  fair  riddance  !  My  father's  laid  in 
dust ;  his  coffin  and  he  is  like  a  whole  meat-pie,  and 
the  worms  will  cut  him  up  shortly.  Farewell,  old 
dad,  farewell !  I'll  be  curbed  in  no  more.  I  perceive 
a  son  and  heir  may  quickly  be  made  a  fool,  an  he  will 
be  one ;  but  I'll  take  another  order.  —  Now,  she  would 
have  me  weep  for  him,  forsooth ;  and  why  ?  Because 
he  cozened  the  right  heir,  he  being  a  fool,  and  be- 
stowed those  lands  on  me  his  eldest  son  ;  and  there- 
fore I  must  weep  for  him  :  ha  !  ha  !  Why.  all  the 
world  knows,  as  long  as  'twas  his  pleasure  to  get  me, 
'twas  his  duty  to  get  for  me.  I  know  the  law  on  that 
point :  no  attorney  can  gull  me.  Well,  my  uncle  is  an 
old  ass,  and  an  admirable  coxcomb.  I'll  rule  the 
roast  myself ;  I'll  be  kept  under  no  more  ;  I  know 
what  I  may  do  well  enough,  by  my  father's  copy  ; 
the  law's  in  mine  own  hands  now.  Nay,  now  I  know 
my  strength,  I'll  be  strong  enough  for  my  mother,  I 
warrant  you.  [Exit. 

6  That  is,  wets.    Washings  were  called  "  buckings." 
6  A  pun  upon  the  word  hospital,  of  which  "spital  ia  a  con- 
traction. 


ACT  L— SCENE  II. 


121 


SCENE  II.  —  A  Street. 
Enter  PTEBOAHD  and  SKIRMISH. 

Pye.  What's  to  be  done  now,  old  lad  of  war  ?  Thou 
that  wert  wont  to  be  as  hot  as  a  turnspit,  as  nimble 
as  a  fencer,  and  as  lousy  as  a  schoolmaster  —  now 
thou  art  put  to  silence  like  a  sectary. —  War  sits  now 
like  a  justice  of  peace,  and  does  nothing.  Where  be 
your  muskets,  calivers,  and  hot-shots  ?  In  Long-lane, 
at  pawn,  at  pawn?  Now  keys  are  your  only  guns:  key- 
guns,  key-guns,  and  bawds  the  gunners  —  who  are 
your  sentinels  in  peace,  and  stand  ready  charged  to 
give  warning  with  hems,  hums,  and  pocky  coughs. 
Only  your  chambers  are  licensed  to  play  upon  you, 
and  drabs  enow  to  give  fire  to  'em. 

Skir.  Well,  I  can  not  tell,  but  I  am  sure  it  goes 
wrong  with  me  ;  for  since  the  ceasure  of  the  wars,  I 
have  spent  above  a  hundred  crowns  out  of  purse.  I 
have  been  a  soldier  any  time  this  forty  years ;  and 
now  I  perceive  an.  old  soldier  and  an  old  courtier 
have  both  one  destiny,  and  in  the  end  turn  both  into 
hobnails. 

Pye.  Pretty  mystery  for  a  beggar,  for  indeed  a  hob- 
nail is  the  true  emblem  of  a  beggar's  shoe-sole. 

Skir.  I  will  not  say  but  that  war  is  a  bloodsucker, 
and  so  ;  but  in  my  conscience  —  as  there  is  no  soldier 
but  has  a  piece  of  one,  though  it  be  full  of  holes  like 
a  shot  ancient1  —  no  matter,  'twill  serve  to  swear  by 
—  in  my  conscience,  I  think  some  kind  of  peace  has 
more  hidden  oppressions,  and  violent,  heady  sins, 
though  looking  of  a  gentle  nature,  than  a  professed 
war. 

Pye.  Troth,  and  for  mine  own  part,  I  am  a  poor 
gentleman  and  a  scholar :  I  have  been  matriculated 
in  the  university ;  wore  out  six  gowns  there ;  seen 
some  fools,  and  some  scholars ;  some  of  the  city,  and 
some  of  the  country ;  kept  order  ;  went  bareheaded 
over  the  quadrangle  ;  eat  my  commons  with  a  good 
stomach,  and  battled  with  discretion  ;  —  at  last,  hav- 
ing done  many  sleights  and  tricks  to  maintain  my  wit 
in  use  —  as  my  brain  would  never  endure  me  to  be 
idle  —  I  was  expelled  the  university,  only  for  stealing 
a  cheese  out  of  Jesus  college.* 

Skir.  Is't  possible  ? 

Pye.  0,  there  was  one  Welshman  —  God  forgive 
him  !  — pursued  it  hard,  and  never  left,  till  I  turned 
my  staff  toward  London  ;  where,  when  I  came,  all  my 
friends  were  pit-holed,  gone  to  graves,  as,  indeed, 
there  was  but  a  few  left  before.  Then  was  I  turned 
to  my  wits ;  to  shift  in  the  world ;  to  tower  among 
sons  and  heirs,  and  fools,  and  gulls,  and  ladies'  eldest 
sons  ;  to  work  upon  nothing ;  to  feed  out  of  flint ;  and 
ever  since  has  my  belly  been  much  beholden  to  my 
brain.3  But  now  to  return  to  you,  old  Skirmish  :  I  say 
as  you  say ;  and,  for  my  part,  wish  a  turbulency  in 
the  world  ;  for  I  have  nothing  in  the  world  but  my 
wits,  and  I  think  they  are  as  mad  as  they  will  be  : 

1  Shot  in  the  sense  of  cannon.    In  Henry  IV.,  we  have 
"  an  old-faced  ancient." 

2  The  commentators  assume,  from  the  accumulation  of 
college  phrases,  that  the   author  must  have  been  an  aca- 
demic.    I  need  not  remark  that  phrases  in  French  and 
Latin  are  to  be  picked  up  just  as  easily  by  those  who  have 
studied  neither  language. 

3  An  ingenious  commentator,  determined  on  proving  this 
play  to  have  been  written  by  Shakspeare,  might  adduce 
these  passages  to  show  his  history.    "  Pit-holed"  might  be  a 
quibble  upon  a  favorite  part  of  the  theatre  as  well  as  a  buri- 
al-place. 


and  to  strengthen  your  argument  the  more,  I  say  that 
an  honest  war  is  better  than  a  bawdy  peace.  As 
touching  my  profession :  the  multiplicity  of  scholars, 
hatched  and  nourished  in  the  idle  calms  of  peace, 
makes  'em  like  fishes,  one  devour  another  ;  and  the 
community  of  learning  has  so  played  upon  affections, 
that  thereby  almost  religion  is  come  about  to  phan- 
tasy, and  discredited  by  being  too  much  spoken  of  in 
so  many  and  mean  mouths.  I  myself,  being  a  schol- 
ar and  a  graduate,  have  no  other  comfort  by  my  learn- 
ing but  the  affection  of  my  words ;  to  know  how, 
scholar-like,  to  name  what  I  want,  and  can  call  my- 
self a  beggar  both  in  Greek  and  Latin.  And,  there- 
fore, not  to  cog  with  peace,  I'll  not  be  afraid  to  say, 
'tis  a  great  breeder,  but  a  bad  nourisher ;  a  great  get- 
ter of  children,  which  must  either  be  thieves  or  rich 
men,  knaves  or  beggars. 

Skir.  Well,  would  I  had  been  born  a  knave,  then, 
when  I  was  born  a  beggar !  for,  if  the  truth  was 
known,  I  think  I  was  begot  when  my  father  had  never 
a  penny  in  his  purse. 

Pye.  Puh !  faint  not,  old  Skirmish ;  let  this  warrant 
thee  :  facilis  descensusAverni — 'tis  an  easy  journey  to 
a  knave  ;  thou  may'st  be  a  knave  when  thou  wilt ; 
and  peace  is  a  good  madam  to  all  other  professions, 
and  an  arrant  drab  to  us.  Let  us  handle  her  accord- 
ingly, and,  by  our  wits,  thrive  in  despite  of  her ;  for, 
since  the  lawyer  lives  by  quarrels,  the  courtier  by 
smooth  good-morrows,  and  every  profession  makes 
itself  greater  by  imperfections :  why  not  we,  then,  by 
shifts,  wiles,  and  forgeries  ?  And,  seeing  our  brains 
are  the  only  patrimonies,  let's  spend  with  judgment ; 
not  like  a  desperate  son  and  heir,  but  like  a  sober  and 
discreet  templar  —  one  that  will  never  march  beyond 
the  bounds  of  his  allowance.  And,  for  our  thriving 
means,  thus :  I  myself  will  put  on  the  deceit  of  a  for- 
tune-teller. 

Skir.  A  fortune-teller  ?    Very  proper. 

Pye.  And  you  a  figure-caster,  or  a  conjurer. 

Skir.  A  conjurer  ? 

Pye.  Let  me  alone  ;  111  instruct  you,  and  teach  you 
to  deceive  all  eyes  but  the  devil's. 

Skir.  0,  ay ;  for  I  would  not  deceive  him,  an  I 
could  choose,  of  all  others. 

Pye.  Fear  not,  I  warrant  you.  And  so,  by  these 
means,  we  shall  help  one  another  to  patients :  as  the 
condition  of  the  age  affords  creatures  enow  for  cun- 
ning to  work  upon. 

Skir.  0  wondrous  !  new  fools  and  fresh  asses. 

Pye.  O  fit,  fit,  excellent !  [Suddenly. 

Skir.  What  now,  in  the  name  of  conjuring  ? 

Pye.  My  memory  greets  me  happily  with  an  admi- 
rable subject  to  graze  upon.  The  lady-widow,  who 
of  late  I  saw  weeping  in  her  garden  for  the  death  of 
her  husband :  sure  she's  but  a  waterish  soul,  and  half 
on't  by  this  time  is  dropped  out  of  her  eyes.  Device 
well  managed  may  do  good  upon  her  :  it  stands  firm ; 
my  first  practice  shall  be  there. 

Skir.  You  have  my  voice,  George. 

Pye.  She's  a  gray  gull  to  her  brother,  a  fool  to  her 
only  son,  and  an  ape  to  her  youngest  daughter.  I 
overheard  them  severally,  and  from  their  words  I'll 
derive  my  device  ;  and  thou,  old  Peter  Skirmish,  shalt 
be  my  second  in  all  sleights. 

Skir.  Ne'er  doubt  me,  George  Pyeboard ;  only,  you 
must  teach  me  to  conjure. 

Pye.  Puh .'  I'll  perfect  thee,  Peter. 


122     THE  PURITAN ;  OR,  THE  WIDOW  OF  WATLING  STREET. 


IDLE,  pinioned,  and  attended  by  a  Guard  of  Sheriff's 
Officers,  passes  over  the  Stage. 

How  now  ?  what's  he  ? 

Skir.  O  George  !  this  sight  kills  me !  'Tis  my 
sworn  brother,  Captain  Idle  ! 

Pye.  Captain  Idle  ? 

Skir.  Apprehended  for  some  felonious  act  or  oth- 
er. He  has  started  out ;  has  made  a  night  on't ;  lacked 
silver ;  I  can  not  but  commend  his  resolution ;  he 
would  not  pawn  his  buffjerkin  :  I  would  either  some 
of  us  were  employed,  or  might  pitch  our  tents  at  usu- 
rers' doors,  to  kill  the  slaves  as  they  peep  out  at  the 
wicket. 

Pye.  Indeed,  they  are  our  ancient  enemies :  they 
keep  our  money  in  their  hands,  and  make  us  to  be 
hanged  for  robbing  of  'em.  But  come,  let's  follow 
after  to  the  prison,  and  know  the  nature  of  his  of- 
fence ;  and  what  we  can  stead  him  in,  he  shall,  be 
sure  of  it :  and  I'll  uphold  it  still,  that  a  charitable 
knave  is  better  than  a  soothing1  puritan. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  Street. 

Enter  NICHOLAS  ST.  ANTLINOS^  SIMON  ST.  MARY- 
OvERiES,3  and  FRAILTY,  in  black,  scurvy  Mourning' 
Coats,  and  Books  at  their  Girdles,  as  coming  from 
Church.  To  them  Corporal  OATH. 

Nich.  What,  Corporal  Oath  !  I  am  sorry  we  have 
met  with  you ;  next  our  hearts,  you  are  the  man  that 
we  are  forbidden  to  keep  company  withal.  We  must 
not  swear,  I  can  tell  you,  and  you  have  the  name  for 
swearing. 

Sim.  Ay,  Corporal  Oath,  I  would  you  would  do  so 
much  as  forsake  us  ;  we  can  not  abide  you  j  we  must 
not  be  seen  in  your  company. 

Frail.  There  is  none  of  us,  I  can  tell  you,  but  shall 
be  sound!  y  whipped  for  swearing. 

Corp.  Why,  how  now?  we  three4  puritanical  scrape- 
shoes  —  flesh  o'  Good  Fridays  !  a  hand. 

All.  Oh !  [Shakes  them  by  the  hand. 

Corp.  Why,  Nicholas  Saint  Antlings,  Simon  Saint 
Mary-Overies,  has  the  de'il  possessed  you,  that  you 
swear  no  better  ?  You  half-christened  catomites,  you 
ungodmothered  varlets  !5  does  the  first  lesson  teach  you 
to  be  proud,  and  the  second  to  be  coxcombs  —  proud 
coxcombs  —  not  once  to  do  duty  to  a  man  of  mark  ? 

Frail.  A  man  of  mark,  quoth'a  ?  I  do  not  think 
he  can  show  a  beggar's  noble.6 

Corp.  A  corporal,  a  commander,  one  of  spirit,  that 
is  able  to  blow  you  up  all  dry  with  your  books  at 
your  girdles. 

Nich.  We  are  not  taught  to  believe  that,  sir,  for  we 
know  the  breath  of  man  is  weak. 

[OATH  breathes  on  FRAILTY. 

Frail.  Fob !  you  lie,  Nicholas !  for  here's  one  strong 
enough.  Blow  us  up,  quoth'a !  he  may  well  blow  me 

1  Quere:  sobbing? 

*,  s  The  names  of  well-known  churches. 

*  So  in  Twelfth  Night :  "  Did  you  ever  see  the  picture  of 
We  three?"  A  common  sign  in  the  time  of  Shakspeare,  &c., 
consisting  of  two  men  in  fools'  coats.  The  spectator,  or  in- 
quirer concerning  its  meaning,  was  supposed  to  make  the 
third. — STEEVENS. 

«  The  puritans  objected  to  the  practice  of  having  god- 
fathers and  godmothers  in  baptism. — PKBCT. 
_  6  A  quibble  between  mark,  an  ancient  coin,  and  mark,  a 
sign  of  distinction ;  and  between  noble,  a  coin,  and  noble, 
the  opposite  of  beggar. 


above  twelvescore  off  on  him  :  I  warrant,  if  the  wind 
stood  right,  a  man  might  smell  him  from  the  top  of 
Newgate  to  the  leads  of  Ludgate. 

Corp.  Sirrah,  thou  hollow  book  of  wax-candle? 

Nich.  Ay,  you  may  say  what  you  will,  so  you  swear 
not. 

Corp.  I  swear  by  the 

Nich.  Hold,  hold,  good  Corporal  Oath  ;  for  if  you 
swear  once,  we  shall  fall  down  in  a  swoon  presently. 

Corp.  I  must  and  will  swear,  you  quivering  cox- 
combs !  My  captain  is  imprisoned,  and  by  Vulcan's 
leather  cod-piece  point 

Nich.  0.  Simon,  what  an  oath  was  there  ! 

Frail.  If  he  should  chance  to  break  it,  the  poor 
man's  breeches  would  fall  down  about  his  heels ;  for 
Venus  allows  but  one  point  to  his  hose.8 

Corp.  With  these,  my  bully-feet,  I  will  thump  ope 
the  prison-doors,  and  brain  the  keeper  with  the  beg- 
ging-box, but  I'll  set  my  honest,  sweet  Captain  Idle 
at  liberty. 

Nich.  How,  Captain  Idle  ?  my  old  aunt's  son,  my 
dear  kinsman,  in  Cappadochio  ? 

Corp.  Ay,  thou  church-peeling,  thou  holy-paring, 
religious-outside,  thou  !  If  thou  hadst  any  grace  in 
thee,  thou  wouldst  visit  him,  relieve  him,  swear  to 
get  him  out. 

Nich.  Assure  you,  corporal,  indeed,  la !  'tis  the 
first  time  I  heard  on't. 

Corp.  Why,  do?t  now,  then,  marmozet.  Bring 
forth  thy  yearly  wages  :  let  not  a  commander  perish. 

Sim.  But  if  he  be  one  of  the  wicked,  he  shall  per- 
ish. 

Nich.  Well,  corporal,  I'll  e'en  along  with  you,  to 
visit  my  kinsman :  if  I  can  do  him  any  good,  I  will ; 
but  I  have  nothing  for  him.  Simon  Saint  Mary-Over- 
ies and  Frailty,  pray  make  a  lie  for  me  to  the  knight 
my  master,  old  Sir  Godfrey. 

Corp.  A  lie  ?  may  you  lie,  then  ? 

Frail.  0,  ay,  we  may  lie,  but  we  must  not  swear. 

Sim.  True,  we  may  lie  with  our  neighbor's  wife,  but 
we  must  not  swear  we  did  so. 

Corp.  O,  an  excellent  tag  of  religion ! 

Nich.  O,  Simon,  I  have  thought  upon  a  sound  ex- 
cuse ;  it  will  go  current.  Say  that  I  am  gone  to  a 
fast.9 

Sim.  To  a  fast  ?    Very  good. 

Nich.  Ay,  to  a  fast ;  say,  with  Master  Fullbelly, 
the  minister. 

Sim.  Master  Fullbelly  ?  An  honest  man :  he  feeds 
the  flock  well,  for  he's  an  excellent  feeder. 

[Exeunt  OATH  and  NICHOLAS. 

Frail.  O,  ay ;  I  have  seen  him  eat  a  whole  pig,  and 
afterward  fall  to  the  pettitoes. 

[Exeunt  SIMON  and  FRAILTY. 

SCENE  IV. — A  Room  in  the  Marshalsea  Prison. 

Enter  IDLE  ;  to  him  afterward  PYEBOAED  and  SKIR- 
MISH. 

Pye.  [within].  Pray  turn  the  key. 
Skir.  [within].  Turn  the  key,  I  pray. 

7  I  suppose  alluding  to  the  rolls  of  wax-candle  coiled  up 
in  the  form  of  a  book. — PERCY. 

8  Points  were  the  metal  hooks  by  which  the  breeches  and 
waistcoat  were  anciently  held  together.    A  similar  pleasant- 
ry occur*  In  Henry  IV,  thus : — 

"Their  points  being  broken, 
Down  fell  their  hose." 

9  A  fast— a  gaol— a  lock-up-fast-enough. 


ACT  L— SCENE  IV. 


123 


Capt.  Who  should  these  be  ?  I  almost  know  their 
voices  !  [Enter  PYEBOARD  and  SKIRMISH  ]  0,  my 
friends  !  you  are  welcome  to  a  smelling-room  here  ; 
you  newly  took  leave  of  the  air :  is  it  not  a  strange 
savor  ? 

Pye.  As  all  prisons  have  smells  of  sundry  wretch- 
es, who,  though  departed,  leave  their  scents  behind 
'em.  By  gold,  captain,  I  am  sincerely  sorry  for  thee. 

Capt.  By  my  troth,  George,  I  thank  thee ;  but, 
pish  !  what  must  be  must  be. 

Skir.  Captain,  what  do  you  lie  in  for  ?  is't  great  ? 
What's  your  offence  ? 

Capt.  Faith,  my  offence  is  ordinary  —  common  —  a 
highway :  and  I  fear  me  my  penalty  will  be  ordinary 
and  common  too,  a  halter. 

Pye.  Nay,  prophesy  not  so  ill ;  it  shall  go  hard,  but 
I'll  shift  for  thy  life. 

Capt.  Whether  I  live  or  die,  thou'rt  an  honest 
George.  I'll  teJl  you :  silver  flowed  not  with  me,  as 
it  had  done.  For  now  the  tide  runs  to  bawds  and  flat- 
terers. I  had  a  start  out,  and  by  chance  set  upon  a 
fat  steward,  thinking  his  purse  had  been  as  pursy  as 
his  body ;  and  the  slave  had  about  him  but  the  poor 
purchase  of  ten  groats.  Notwithstanding,  being  de- 
scried, pursued,  and  taken,  I  know  the  law  is  so  grim 
in  respect  of  many  desperate,  unsettled  soldiers,  that 
I  fear  me  I  shall  dance  after  their  pipe  for't. 

Skir.  I  am  twice  sorry  for  you,  captain  :  first,  that 
your  purchase  was  so  small,  and  now  that  your  dan- 
ger is  so  great. 

Capt.  Pish  !  the  worst  is  but  death.  Have  you  a 
pipe  of  tobacco  about  you  ? 

Skir.  I  think  I  have  hereabouts. 

[Gives  tobacco  ;  Captain  blows  a  pipe. 

Capt.  Here's  a  clean  gentleman,  too,  to  receive.1 

Pye.  Well,  I  must  cast  about  some  happy  sleight : 
Work,  brain,  that  ever  didst  thy  master  right. 

Corp.  [within].  Keeper,  let  the  Jcey  be  turned. 

[OATH  and  NICHOLAS  knock  within. 

Nich.  [within] .  Ay,  I  pray,  master  keeper,  give's  a 
cast  of  your  office.  [Enter  OATH  and  NICHOLAS. 

Capt.  How  now  ?  more  visitants  ?  What !  Corpo- 
ral Oath  ? 

Pye.  and  Skir.  Corporal ! 

Corp.  In  prison,  honest  captain?  This  must  not  be. 

Nich.  How  do  you,  captain  kinsman  ? 

Capt.  Good  coxcomb !  What  makes  that  pure, 
starched  fool  here  ? 

Nich.  You  see,  kinsman,  I  am  somewhat  bold  to 
call  in,  and  see  how  you  do.  I  heard  you  were  safe 
enough ;  and  I  was  very  glad  on't,  that  it  was  no 
worse. 

Capt.  This  is  a  double  torture,  now.    This  fool,  by 

the  book, 

Doth  vex  me  more  than  my  imprisonment. 
What  meant  you,  corporal,  to  hook  him  hither? 

Corp.  Who,  he  ?  he  shall  relieve  thee,  and  supply 
thee :  I'll  make  him  do't. 

Capt.  Fie  !  what  vain  breath  you  spend  !  He  sup- 
ply ?  I'll  sooner  expect  mercy  from  a  usurer  when 
my  bond's  forfeited  ;  sooner  kindness  from  a  lawyer 
when  my  money's  spent ;  nay,  sooner  charity  from 
the  devil,  than  good  from  a  puritan.  I'll  look  for  re- 
lief from  him  when  Lucifer  is  restored  to  his  blood,* 
and  in  heaven  again. 

•  A  clear  pipe  to  receive  it  in. 

3  That  is,  to  his  rank— to  his  family  honors. 


Nich.  I  warrant  my  kinsman's  talking  of  me,  fo". 
my  left  ear  burns  most  tyrannically.3 

Pye.  Captain  Idle  !  what's  he  there  ?  He  looks 
like  a  monkey  upward,  and  a  crane  downward. 

Capt.  Pshaw  !  a  foolish  cousin  of  mine.  I  must 
thank  God  for  him. 

Pye.  Why,  the  better  subject  to  work  a  'scape  up- 
on. Thou  shall  e'en  change  clothes  with  him,  and 
leave  him  here,  and  so 

Capt.  Pish  !  I  published  him  e'en  now  to  my  cor- 
poral ;  he  will  be  damned  ere  he  do  me  so  much 
good.  Why,  I  know  a  more  proper,  a  more  hand- 
some device  than  that,  if  the  slave  would  be  sociable. 
Now,  goodman  Fleerface  ! 

Nich.  O,  my  cousin  begins  to  speak  to  me  now ;  I 
shall  be  acquainted  with  him  again,  I  hope. 

Skir.  Look  !  what  ridiculous  raptures  take  hold  of 
his  wrinkles ! 

Pye.  Then  what  say  you  to  this  device  — a  happy 
one,  captain  ? 

Capt.  Speak  low,  George.  Prison-rats  have  wider 
ears  than  those  in  malt-lofts. 

Nich.  Cousin,  if  it  lay  in  my  power,  as  they  say, 
to  do 

Capt.  'Twould  do  me  an  exceeding  pleasure  indeed, 
that ;  but  ne'er  talk  further  on't ;  the  fool  will  be 
hanged  ere  he  do't.  [To  the  Corporal. 

Corp.  Pox !  I'll  thump  him  to't. 

Pye.  Why,  do  but  try  the  fopster,  and  break  it  to 
him  bluntly. 

Capt.  And  so  my  disgrace  will  dwell  in  his  jaws, 
and  the  slave  slaver  out  our  purpose  to  his  master  ; 
for  would  I  were  but  as  sure  on't  as  I  am  sure  he  will 
deny  to  do't. 

Nich.  I  would  be  heartily  glad,  cousin,  if  any  of 
my  friendships,  as  they  say,  might  —  stand,  ha  — 

Pye.  Why,  you  see  he  offers  his  friendship  foolish- 
ly to  you  already. 

Capt.  Ay,  that's  the  hell  on't ;  I  would  he  would 
offer  it  wisely. 

Nich.  Verily  and  indeed,  la  !  cousin 

Capt.  I  have  took  note  of  thy  fleers  a  good  while. 
If  thou  art  minded  to  do  me  good  — as  thou  gap'st 
upon  me  comfortably,  and  giv'st  me  charitable  faces 
—  which,  indeed,  is  but  a  fashion  in  you  all  that  are 
puritans  —  wilt  soon  as4  night  steal  me  thy  master's 
chain  ? 

Nich.  Oh,  I  shall  swoon  ! 

Pye.  Corporal,  he  starts  already. 

Capt .  I  know  it  to  be  worth  three  hundred  crowns  ; 
and,  with  the  half  of  that,  I  can  buy  my  life  at  a  bro- 
ker's,  at  second  hand,  which  now  lies  in  pawn  to  the 
law.  If  this  thou  refuse  to  do,  being  easy  and  noth- 
ing dangerous,  in  that  thou  art  held  in  good  opinion 
of  thy  master,  why,  'tis  a  palpable  argument  thou 
hold'st  my  life  at  no  price,  and  these  thy  broken  and 
unjointed  offers  are  but  only  created  in  thy  lip  :  now 
born,  and  now  buried  ;  foolish  breath  only  .'  What, 
wilt  do't  ?  Shall  I  look  for  happiness  in  thy  answer  ? 

Nich.  Steal  my  master's  chain,  quoth'a?  No,  it 
shall  ne'er  be  said  that  Nicholas  Saint  Antlings  com- 
mitted bird-lime  ! 

Capt.  Nay,  I  told  you  as  much,  did  I  not  ?  Though 
he  be  a  puritan,  yet  he  will  be  a  true  man. 

Nich.  Why,  cousin,  you  know  'tis  written,  Thou 
shall  not  steal. 

3  So  in  Hamlet,  "  most  tyrannically." 
*  "At"  in  former  editions. 


124     THE  PURITAN ;  OR,  THE  WIDOW  OF  WATLING  STREET. 


Capt.  Why,  and  fool,  Thou  shalt  love  thy  neighbor, 
and  help  him  in  extremities. 

Nich.  Mass,  I  think  it  be,  indeed ;  in  what  chap- 
ter's that,  cousin  ? 

Capt.  Why,  in  the  first  of  charity,  the  second 
verse. 

Nich.  The  first  of  charity,  quoth'a  ?  That's  a  good 
jest ;  there's  no  such  chapter  in  my  book  ! 

Capt.  No,  I  knew  'twas  torn  out  of  thy  book,  and 
that  makes  so  little  in  thy  heart. 

Pye.  [Takes  NICHOLAS  aside].  Come,  let  me  tell 
you,  you  are  too  unkind  a  kinsman,  i 'faith ;  the  cap- 
tain loving  you  so  dearly — ay,  like  the  pome  water 
of  his  eye1  —  and  you  to  be  so  unconformable.*  Fie, 
£e! 

Nich.  Pray,  do  not  wish  me  to  be  hanged.  Any- 
thing else  that  I  can  do :  had  it  been  to  rob,  I  would 
ha'  don't ;  but  I  must  not  steal.  That's  the  word,  the 
literal,  Thou  shall  not  steal ;  and  would  you  wish  me 
to  steal,  then? 

Pye.  No,  i'fakh,  that  were  too  much,  to  speak 
truth.  Why,  wilt  thou  nym  it  from  him  ? 

Nich.  That  I  will. 

Pye.  Why,  enough,  bully.  He  will  be  content  with 
that,  or  he  shall  have  none.  Let  me  alone  with  him 
now.  Captain,  I  have  dealt  with  your  kinsman  in  a 
corner  ;  a  good,  kind-natured  fellow,  methinks :  go 
to,  you  shall  not  have  all  your  own  asking  ;  you  shall 
'bate  somewhat  on't ;  he  is  not  contented  absolutely, 
as  you  would  say.  to  steal  the  chain  from  him ;  but, 
to  do  you  a  pleasure,  he  will  nym  it  from  him. 

Nich.  Ay,  that  I  will,  cousin. 

Capt.  Well,  seeing  he  will  do  no  more,  as  far  as  I 
see,  I  must  be  contented  with  that. 

Corp.  Here's  no  notable  gullery ! 

Pye.  Nay,  I'll  come  nearer  to  you,  gentlemen.  Be- 
cause we'll  have  only  but  a  help  and  a  mirth  on't,  the 
knight  shall  not  lose  his  chain  neither,  but  be  only 
laid  out  of  the  way  some  one  or  two  days. 

Nich.  Ay,  that  would  be  good,  indeed,  kinsman. 

Pye.  For  I  have  a  further  reach,  to  profit  us  better, 
by  the  missing  oft  only,  than  if  we  had  it  outright,  as 
my  discourse  shall  make  it  known  to  you.  When 
thou  hast  the  chain,  do  but  convey  it  out  at  a  back 
door  into  the  garden,  and  there  hang  it  close  in  the 
rosemary  bank,  but  for  a  small  season  ;  and,  by  that 
harmless  device,  I  know  how  to  wind  Captain  Idle 
out  of  prison :  the  knight  thy  master  shall  get  his  par- 
don and  release  him,  and  he  satisfy  thy  master  with 
his  own  chain,  and  wondrous  thanks  on  both  hands. 

Nich.  That  were  rare  indeed,  la !  Pray,  let  me 
know  how. 

Pye.  Nay,  'tis  very  necessary  thou  shouldst  know, 
because  thou  must  be  employed  as  an  actor. 

Nich.  An  actor  ?  Oh  no,  that's  a  player,  and  our 
parson  rails  against  players  mightily,  I  can  tell  you, 
because  they  brought  him  drunk  upon  the  stage  once 
—  as  he  will  be  horribly  drunk. 

Corp.  Mass  !  I  can  not  blame  him,  then ;  poor 
church-spout ! 

Pye.  Why,  as  an  intermeddler,  then  ? 

Nich.  Ay— that,  that. 

Pye.  Give  me  audience,  then.  When  the  old  knight 
thy  master  has  raged  his  fill  for  the  loss  of  the  chain, 

1  The  apple  of  his  eye.    Pomewater  is  a  kind  of  apple. 
But  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  Pyeboard  is  a  scholar. 
•  Written  "  uncomfortable"  in  previous  editions. 


tell  him  thou  hast  a  kinsman  in  prison  of  such  exquis- 
ite art,  that  the  devil  himself  is  French  lackey  to  him, 
and  runs  bareheaded  by  his  horse's  belly,  when  he 
has  one  —  whom  he  will  cause,  with  most  Irish  dex- 
terity,3 to  fetch  his  chain,  though  'twere  hid  under  a 
mine  of  sea-coal,  and  ne'er  make  spade  or  pickaxe 
his  instruments.  Tell  him  but  this,  with  further  in- 
structions thou  shalt  receive  from  me,  and  thou  show- 
est  thyself  a  kinsman,  indeed. 

Corp.  A  dainty  bully. 

Skir.  An  honest  book-keeper. 

Corp.  And  my  three-times-thrice-honey-cousin. 

Nich.  Nay,  grace  of  God,  I'll  rob  him  on't  sudden- 
ly, and  hang  it  in  the  rosemary  bank  ;  but  I  bear  that 
mind,  cousin,  I  would  not  steal  anything,  methinks, 
for  mine  own  father. 

Skir.  He  bears  a  good  mind  in  that,  captain. 

Pye.  Why,  well  said.  He  begins  to  be  an  honest 
fellow,  i'faith. 

Corp.  In  truth  he  does. 

Nich.  You  see,  cousin,  I  am  willing  to  do  you  any 
kindness,  always  saving  myself  harmless. 

Capt.  Why,  I  thank  thee  ;  fare  thee  well ;  I  shall 
requite  it.  [Exit  NICHOLAS. 

Corp.  'Twill  be  good  for  thee,  captain,  that  thou 
hast  such  an  egregious  ass  to  thy  cousin. 

Capt.  Ay,  is  not  that  a  fine  fool,  corporal  ? 
But,  George,  thou  talk'st  of  art  and  conjuring : 
How  shall  that  be  ? 

Pye.  Puh !  be't  not  your  care  : 

Leave  that  to  me  and  my  directions. 
Well,  captain,  doubt  not  thy  delivery  now, 
Even  with  the  'vantage,  man,  to  gain  by  prison, 
As  my  thoughts  prompt  me.    Hold  on,  brain,  and 
I  aim  at  many  cunning,  far  events,  [plot ! 

All  which  I  doubt  not  but  to  hit  at  length. 
I'll  to  the  widow  with  a  quaint  assault :  — 
Captain,  be  merry. 

Capt.  Who,  I  ?    Kerry  merry  buff  jerkin. 

Pye.  Oh,  I  am  happy  in  more  sleights,  and  one 
Will  knit  strong  in  another. —  Corporal  Oath — 

Corp.  Ho!  bully. 

Pye.  And  thou,  old  Peter  Skirmish;  I  have  a  neces- 
sary task  for  you  both. 

Skir.  Lay't  upon  us,  George  Pyeboard. 

Corp.  Whate'er  it  be,  we'll  manage  it. 

Pye.  I  would  have  you  two  maintain  a  quarrel 
before  the  lady-widow's  door,  and  draw  your  swords 
i'th'  edge  of  the  evening.  —  Clash  a  little  —  clash, 
clash. 

Corp.  Fuh ! 

Let  us  alone  to  make  our  blades  ring  noon, 
Though  it  be  after  supper. 

Pye.  I  know  you  can  ; 

And  out  of  that  false  fire,  I  doubt  not  but  to  raise 
strange  belief.  —  And,  captain,  to  countenance  my  de- 
vice the  better,  and  grace  my  words  to  the  widow,  I 
have  a  good  plain  satin  suit,  that  I  had  of  a  young 
reveller  t'other  night ;  for  words  pass  not  regarded 
now  a-days,  unless  they  come  from  a  good  suit  of 
clothes  ;  which  the  fates  and  my  wits  have  bestowed 
upon  me.  Well,  Captain  Idle,  if  I  did  not  highly  love 
thee,  I  would  ne'er  be  seen  within  twelve  score  of*  a 

3  With  the  agility  of  a  running  footman.  In  the  time  of 
Queen  Elizabeth  and  King  James  I.,  many  noblemen  hud 
Irish  running  footmen  in  their  service.— MALONK. 

«  Yard},  understood. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  I. 


125 


prison  ;  for  I  protest,  at  this  instant,  I  walk  in  great 
danger  of  small  debts.  I  owe  money  to  several  host- 
esses, and  you  know  such  gills  will  quickly  be  upon 
a  man's  jack. 

Capt.  True,  George. 

Pye.  Fare  thee  well,  captain.  Come,  corporal  and 
ancient.  Thou  shalt  hear  more  news  next  time  we 
greet  thee. 

Corp.  More  news  ?  Ay,  by  yon  Bear  at  Bridge-foot, 
in  the  evening1  shalt  thou. 

[Exeunt  PYEBOARD,  SKIRMISH,  and  OATH. 

Capt.  Enough  ;  my  friends,  farewell ! 
This  prison  shows  as  ghosts  did  part  in  hell.z 

[Exit. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I.  —  A  Room  in  the  Widow's  House. 
Enter  MARY. 

Mary.  Not  marry  !  forswear  marriage !  Why,  all 
women  know  'tis  as  honorable  a  thing  as  to  lie  with 
a  man ;  and  I,  to  spite  my  sister's  vow  the  more, 
have  entertained  a  suitor  already,  a  fine  gallant 
knight  of  the  last  feather.3  He  says  he  will  coach 
me  too ;  and  well  appoint  me  ;  allow  me  money  to 
dice  withal ;  and  many  such  pleasing  protestations  he 
sticks  upon  my  lips.  —  Indeed,  his  short-winded  father 
i'the  country  is  wondrous  wealthy  ;  a  most  abomina- 
ble farmer  ;  and  therefore  he  may  dote  in  time.4 
Troth,  I'll  venture  upon  him.  Women  are  not  with- 
out ways  enough  to  help  themselves :  if  he  prove 
wise  and  good  as  his  word,  why  I  shall  love  him,  and 
use  him  kindly  ;  and  if  he  prove  an  ass,  why,  in  a 
quarter  of  an  hour's  warning  I  can  transform  him  into 
an  ox  ;  —  there  comes  in  my  relief  again. 

Enter  FRAILTY. 

Frail.  0,  Mistress  Mary,  Mistress  Mary. 

Mary.  How  now?  what's  the  news? 

Frail.  The  knight,  your  suitor,  Sir  John  Pennydub. 

Mary.  Sir  John  Pennydub  ?  where  ?    where  ? 

Frail.  He's  walking  in  the  gallery. 

Mary.  Has  my  mother  seen  him  yet  ? 

Frail.  O  no  ;  she's  spitting  in  the  kitchen.5 

Mary.  Direct  him  hither  softly,  my  good  Frailty. 
I'll  meet  him  half  way. 

Frail.  That's  just  like  running  a  tilt ;  but  I  hope 
he'll  break  nothing  this  time.s  [Exit. 

Enter  Sir  JOHN  PEWITYDUB. 

Mary.  'Tis  happiness  my  mother  saw  him  not 
O  welcome,  good  Sir  John. 

1  The  old  copies  read,  " in  heaven" 

2  Doubtless,  a  meaning  may  be  conjured  out  of  the  pas- 
ga^e,  but  the  idea  of  the  author  contracted  to  the  limits  of 
the  line,  compasses  a  volume  of  obscurity.  Perhaps  it  might 
be  something  clearer  to  read  "  do  part,"  or  even  "  depart  in 
hell." 

3  Of  the  latest  fashion. 

4  I  have  left  the  reading  in  the  old  folio  as  it  was.    In  other 
copies  it  is  made  to  read,  "  do  it  in  time,"  that  is,  provide  me 
with  what  he  promises.    But  the  reference  is  to  the  old 
father,  whose  dotage  would  set  the  son  free  to  do  what  he 
pleased. 

6  Superintending  the  spit  or  roasting  machine. 
*  Comparison  drawn  from  the  tourney.    The  knights 
meenng  midway  in  the  encounter,  and  splintering  lances. 


Penny.  I  thank  you  'faith.  — 
Nay,  you  must  stand  me  till  I  kiss  you :  'tis 
The  fashion  everywhere  i'faith,  and  I 
Came  from  the  court  even  now. 

Mary.  Nay,  the  fates  forefend 
That  I  should  anger  the  fashion  ? 

Penny.  Then,  not  forgetting  the  sweet  of  new  cer 
emonies,  I  first  fall  back  ;  then,  recovering  myself, 
make  my  honor  to  your  lip  thus ;  and  then  accost  it. 

[Kisses  her. 

Mary.  Trust  me,  very  pretty  and  moving;  you're 
worthy  of  it,  sir.  O  my  mother,  my  mother !  now 
she  is  here,  we'll  steal  into  the  gallery. 

[Exeunt  Sir  JOHN  and  MART. 

Enter  Widow  and  Sir  GODFREY. 

Sir  God.  Nay,  sister,  let  reason  rule  you ; — do  not 
play  the  fool ;  —  stand  not  in  your  own  light ;  you 
have  wealthy  offers,  large  tenderings  ;  do  not  with- 
stand your  good  fortune.  Who  comes  a-wooing  to 
you,  I  pray  ?  No  small  fool ;  a  rich  knight  o'  the 
city.  Sir  Oliver  Muckhill ;  no  small  fool,  I  can  tell 
you.  And,  furthermore,  as  I  heard  late  by  your  maid- 
servants (as  your  maid-servants  will  say  to  me  any- 
thing, I  thank  'em)  both  your  daughters  are  not  with- 
out suitors ;  ay,  and  worthy  ones  too ;  one  a  brisk 
courtier,  Sir  Andrew  Tipstaff,  suitor  afar  off  to  your 
eldest  daughter,  and  the  third  a  huge  wealthy  farmer's 
son,  a  fine  young  country  knight ;  they  call  him  Sir 
John  Pennydub ;  a  good  name,  marry ;  he  may  have 
it  coined  when  he  lacks  money.  What  blessings  are 
these,  sister  ? 

Wid.  Tempt  me  not,  Satan. 

Sir  God.  Satan  !  do  I  look  like  Satan  ?  I  hope  the 
devil's  not  so  old  as  I,  I  trow. 

Wid.  You  wound  my  senses,  brother,  when  you 
A  suitor  to  me.  Oh,  I  can't  abide  it ; —  [name 

I  take  in  poison  when  I  hear  one  named. 

Enter  SIMON. 

How  now,  Simon  ?  where  is  my  son  Edmond  ? 

Sim.  Verily,  madam,  he  is  at  vain  exercise  ;  drip- 
ping in  the  Tennis-court. 

Wid.  At  Tennis-court  ?  Oh,  now  his  father's  gone, 
I  shall  have  no  rule  with  him  ;  Oh  wicked  Edmond  ! 
I  might  well  compare  this  with  the  prophecy  in  the 
chronicle,  though  far  inferior.  As  Harry  of  Mou- 
mouth  won  all,  and  Harry  of  Windsor  lost  all,  so  Ed- 
mond of  Bristow,  that  was  the  father,  got  all,  and 
Edmond  of  London,  that's  his  son  now,  will  spend  all. 

Sir  God.  Peace,  sister,  we'll  have  him  reformed ; 
there's  hope  of  him  yet,  though  it  be  but  a  little. 

Enter  FRAILTY. 

Frail.  Forsooth,  madam ;  there  are  two  or  three 
archers  at  door  would  very  gladly  speak  with  your 
ladyship. 

Wid.  Archers? 

Sir  God.  Your  husband's  fletcher,7 1  warrant. 

Wid.  Oh, 

Let  them  come  near,  they  bring  home  things  of  his  ; 
Troth,  I  should  ha'  forgot  them.  How  now,  villain  ! 
Which  be  those  archers  ? 

1  Arrow-maker— probably  one  who  put  on  the  feather. 


126    THE  PURITAN  ;  OR,  THE  WIDOW  OF  WATLING  STREET. 


Enter  Sir  ANDREW  TIPSTAFF,  Sir  OLIVER  MUCKHILL, 
and  Sir  JOHN  PENNYDUB. 

Frail.  Why,  do  you  not  see  'em  before  you  ?  Are 
not  these  archers?  —  what  do  you  call  'em — shoot- 
ers?! Shooters  and  archers  are  all  one,  I  hope. 

WiA.  Out.  ignorant  slave. 

Sir  Oliver.  Nay,  pray  be  patient,  lady ;  — 
We  come  in  way  of  honorable  love. 

Sir  And. 

Sir  John. 

Sir  Oliver.  To  you. 

Sir  And.    >  . 

Sir  John.  {  And  to  y°ur  dau&hters' 

Wid.  O,  why  will  you  offer  me  this,  gentlemen  ? 
Indeed,  I  will  not  look  upon  you.  When  the  tears 
are  scarce  out  of  mine  eyes,  not  yet  washed  off  from 
my  cheeks ;  and  my  dear  husband's  body  scarce  so 
cold  as  the  coffin,  —  what  reason  have  you  to  offer  it  ? 
I  am  not  like  some  of  your  widows,  that  will  bury 
one  hi  the  evening,  and  be  sure  to  have  another  ere 
morning.  Pray  away ;  pray  take  your  answers,  good 
knights ;  an  you  be  sweet  knights ;  I  have  vowed 
never  to  marry  ;  —  and  so  have  my  daughters,  too ! 

Sir  John.  Ay,  two  of  you  have,  but  the  third's  a 
good  wench ! 

Sir  Oliver.  Lady,  a  shrewd  answer,  marry.  The 
best  is,  'tis  but  the  first ;  and  he's  a  blunt  wooer  that 
will  leave  for  one  sharp  answer. 

Sir  And.  Where  be  your  daughters,  lady  ?  I  hope 
they'll  give  us  better  encouragement. 

Wid.  Indeed,  they'll  answer  you  so  ?  take  it  on  my 
word  they'll  give  you  the  very  same  answer  verbatim, 
truly,  la. 

Sir  John.  Mum :  Mary's  a  good  wench  still ;  I  know 
what  she'll  do  ? 

Sir  Oliver.  Well,  lady,  for  this  time  we'll  take  our 
Hoping  for  better  comfort.  [leaves 

Wid.  O  never,  never:  an  I  live  these  thousand 
years,  an  you  be  good  knights,  do  not  hope ;  'twill 

b>e  all  vain ,  vain. Look  you,  put  off  all  your  suits, 

an  you  come  to  me  again. 

[Exeunt  Sir  JOHIC  and  Sir  GODFREY. 

Frail.  Put  off  all  their  suits,  quotha  ?  Ay,  that's 
the  best  wooing  of  a  widow  indeed,  when  a  man's 
nonsuited ;  that  is,  when  he's  a-bed  with  her. 

Sir  Oliver.  Sir  Godfrey,  here's  twenty  angels  more. 
Work  hard  for  me  ;  there's  life  in't  yet.8 

Sir  God.  Fear  not,  Sir  Oliver  Muckhill ;  I'll  stick 
close  for  you :  leave  all  with  me.  [Exit  Sir  OLIVER. 

Enter  PYEBOARD. 

Pye.  By  your  leave,  lady  widow. 

Wid.  What,  another  suitor  now  ? 

Pye.  A  suitor .'  no,  I  protest,  lady,  if  you'd  give  me 
yourself,  I'd  not  be  troubled  with  you. 

Wid.  Say  you  so,  sir  ?  then  you're  the  better  wel- 
come, sir. 

Pye.  Nay,  Heaven  bless  me  from  a  widow,  unless  I 
were  sure  to  bury  her  speedily ! 

Wid.  Good  bluntness.    Well,  your  business,  sir  ? 

Pye.  Very  needful ;  if  you  were  in  private  once. 

Wid.  Needful?  Brother,  pray  leave  us:  and  you,  sir. 
[Exit  Sir  GODFREY. 

1  Shooters — suitors. 

•  So  Lear :  "  Then  there's  life  in  it" — Stcevtns.  And  Sir 
Toby  Belch  in  Twelfth  Night :  "  There's  life  in  it,  man." 


Frail.  I  should  laugh  now,  if  this  blunt  fellow 
should  put  them  all  beside  the  stirrup,  and  vault  into 
the  saddle  himself.  1  have  seen  as  mad  a  trick. 

[Exit  FRAILTY. 

Wid.  Now,  sir?  —  here's  none  but  we. —  [Enter 
Daughters.] —  Daughters,  forbear. 

Pye.  O  no, 

Pray  let  them  stay ;  for  what  I  have  to  speak 
Importeth  equally  to  them  as  you  ? 

Wid.  Then  you  may  stay. 

Pye.  I  pray  bestow  on  me  a  serious  ear, 
For  what  I  speak  is  full  of  weight  and  fear. 

Wid.  Fear? 

Pye.  Ay,  ift  pass  unregarded  and  uneffected. 
Else,  peace  and  joy:  —  I  pray  attention,  widow. 
I  have  been  a  mere  stranger  for  these  parts  that  you 
live  in,  nor  did  I  ever  know  the  husband  of  you,  and 
father  of  them,  but  I  truly  know,  by  certain  spiritual 
intelligence,  that  he  is  in  purgatory. 

Wid.  Purgatory !  tub  ;  that  word  deserves  to  be 
spit  upon.  I  wonder  that  a  man  of  sober  tongue,  as 
you  seem  to  be,  should  have  the  folly  to  believe 
there's  such  a  place. 

Pye.  Well,  lady,  in  cold  blood  I  speak  it ;  I  assure 
you  that  there  is  a  purgatory,  in  which  place  I  know 
your  husband  to  reside,  and  wherein  he  is  like  to  re- 
main, till  the  dissolution  of  the  world,  till  the  last 
general  bonfire :  when  all  the  earth  shall  melt  into 
nothing,  and  the  seas  scald  their  finny  laborers :  so 
long  is  his  abidance,  unless  you  alter  the  property  of 
your  purpose,  together  with  each  of  your  daughters 
theirs  ;  that  is,  the  purpose  of  single  life  in  yourself 
and  your  eldest  daughter,  and  the  speedy  determina- 
tion of  marriage  in  your  youngest. 

Mary.  How  knows  he  that  ?  what,  has  some  devil 
told  him? 

Wid.  Strange  he  should  know  our  thoughts  —  Why? 
But  daughter,  have  you  purposed  speedy  marriage  ? 

Pye.  You  see  she  tells  you  ay,  she  says  nothing. 
Nay,  give  me  credit  as  you  please  ;  I  am  a  stranger 
to  you,  and  yet  you  see  I  know  your  determinations, 
which  must  come  to  me  metaphysically,  and  by  a 
supernatural  intelligence. 

Wid .  This  puts  amazement  on  me. 

Frances.  Know  our  secrets  ? 

Mary.  I  had  thought  to  steal  a  marriage.    Would 

bis  tongue 
Had  dropped  out  when  he  blabbed  it. 

Wid.  But,  sir,  my  husband  was  too  honest  a  deal- 
ing man,  to  be  now  in  any  purgatories. 

Pye.  O  do  not  load  your  conscience  with  untruths, 
'Tis  but  mere  folly  now  to  gild  him  o'er, 
That  has  past  but  for  copper.    Praises  here, 
Can  not  unbind  him  there.    Confess  but  truth ; 
I  know  he  got  his  wealth  with  a  hard  gripe  : 
Oh,  hardly,  hardly ! 

Wid.  This  is  most  strange  of  all,  how  knows  he 
that? 

Pye.  He  would  eat  fools  and  ignorant  heirs  cleaa 

up; 

And  had  his  drink  from  many  a  poor  man's  brow, 
Even  as  their  labor  brewed  it.    He  would  scrape 
Riches  to  him  most  unjustly.    The  very  dirt 
Between  his  nails  was  ill  got ;  —  not  his  own  ! 
Oh  !  I  groan  to  speak  of  it.    The  thought  makes  m« 
shudder !  —  shudder  !  — 

Wid.  It  quakes  me  too,  now  I  think  on't.      [asidt. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  II. 


127 


Sir,  I  am  much  grieved,  that  you  a  stranger,  should 
So  deeply  wrong  my  dead  husband  ! 

Pye.  Oh? 

Wid.  A  man  that  would  keep  church  so  duly ;  rise 
enrly  before  his  servants,  and  even,  for  religious  haste, 
go  ungartered,  unbuttoned,  nay,  sir  reverence,  un- 
trussed,  to  morning  prayer  ? 

Pye    Oh,  uffi 

^Vid.  Dine  quickly  upon  high-days,  and  when  I 
had  great  guests,  would  even  shame  me,  and  rise 
from  the  table,  to  get  a  good  seat  at  an  afternoon  ser- 
mon. 

Pye.  There's  the  devil,  there's  the  devil !  True : 
he  thought  it  sanctity  enough,  if  he  had  killed  a  man, 
so  it  had  been  done  in  a  pew;  —  or  undone  his  neigh- 
bor, so  it  had  been  near  enough  to  the  preacher.  Oh  ! 
—  a  sermon's  a  line  short  cloak  of  an  hour  long,  and  will 
hi<le  the  upper  part  of  a  dissembler.  —  Church  !  ay,  he 
seemed  all  church,  and  his  conscience  was  as  hard  as 
the  pulpit. 

Wid.  I  can  no  more  endure  this. 

Pye.  Nor  I,  widow, 

Endure  to  flatter. 

Wtd   Is  this  all  your  business  with  me  ? 

Pye.  No,  lady,  'tis  but  the  induction  to't. 
You  may  believe  my  strains;  I  strike  all  true  ; — 
And  if  your  conscience  wonld  leap  up  to  your  tongue, 
Yourself  would  affirm  it ;  and  that  you  shall  perceive 
I  know  of  things  to  come,  as  well  as  I  do 
Of  what  is  present,  a  brother  of  your  husband's 
Shall  shortly  have  a  loss. 

Wid.  A  loss  ?  marry  Heaven  forfend  ! 
Sir  Godfrey,  my  brother ! 

Pye.  Nay,  keep  in  your  wonders,  till  I  have  told 
you  the  fortunes  of  you  all  —  which  are  more  fear- 
ful, if  not  happily  prevented.  For  your  part  and 
for  your  daughters',  if  there  be  not  once  this  day 
some  blood  slied  before  your  door,  whereof  the  hu- 
man creature  dies,  of  you  two  the  elder  shall  run 
mad 

5™       {Oh! 

Frances.  $ 

Mary.  That's  not  I  yet. 

Pye.  And  with  most  impudent  prostitution  show 
Your  naked  bodies  to  the  view  of  all  beholders. 

Wid.  Our  naked  bodies  ?  fie,  for  shame ! 

Pye.  Attend  me  !  —  and  your  younger  daughter  be 
Stricken  dumb! 

Mary.  Dumb?  out,  alas!  'tis  the  worst  pain  of  all 
for  a  woman.  I'd  rather  be  mad,  or  run  naked,  or  any- 
thing. Dumb ! 

Pye.  Give  ear:  ere  the  evening  fall  upon  hill,  bog, 
and  meadow,  this  my  speech  shall  have  past  probation, 
aud  then  shall  I  be  believed  accordingly. 

Wid.  If  this  be  true,  we  are  all  shamed,  all  undone. 

Mary.  Dumb!  I'll  speak  as  much  as  ever  I  can 
possibly  before  evening. 

Pye  But  if  it  so  come  to  pass  (as  for  your  fair 
sakes  I  wish  it  may)  that  this  presage  of  your  strange 
fortunes  be  prevented  by  that  accident  of  death  and 
bloodshedding  which  I  before  told  you  of,  take  heed, 
upon  your  lives,  that  two  of  you  which  have  vowed 
never  to  marry,  seek  out  husbands  with  all  present 
speed,  and  you  the  third,  that  have  such  a  desire  to 

I  It  might  be  preferable  to  suppose  here  what  the  printers 
call  an  out,  and  read  "  stuff  I"  as  the  proper  epithet,  of  which 
"  uif"  seems  not  only  the  meaning,  but  a  part. 

9 


outstrip  chastity,  look  you  meddle  not  with  a  hus- 
band. 

Mary.  A  double  torment. 

Pye.  The  breach  of  this  keeps  your  father  in  purga- 
tory ;  and  the  punishments  that  shall  follow  you  in  this 
world  would  with  horror  kill  the  ear  should  hear  them 
related. 

Wid.  Marry7  why,  I  vowed  never  to  marry. 

Frances.  And  so  did  I. 

Mary.  And  I  vowed  never  to  be  such  an  ass,  but  to 
marry.  What  a  cross  fortune's  this  ! 

Pye.  Ladies,  though  I  be  a  fortune-teller,  I  can  not 
better  fortunes ;  you  have  them  from  me  as  they  are 
revealed  to  me:  I  would  they  were  to  your  tempers, 
and  fellows  with  your  bloods ;  that's  all  the  bitterness 
I  would  yon. 

Wid.  Oh !  'tis  a  just  vengeance  for  my  husband's 
hard  purchases. 

Pye.  I  wish  you  to  bethink  yourselves,  and  leave 
them. 

Wid.  I'll  to  Sir  Godfrey,  my  brother,  and  acquaint 
him  with  these  fearful  presages. 

Frances.  For,  mother,  they  portend  losses  to  him. 

Wid.  O,  ay  ;  they  do,  they  do. 
If  any  happy  issue  crown  thy  words, 
I  will  reward  thy  cunning. 

[Exeunt  Widow  and  FRANCES. 

Pye.  'Tis  enough,  lady ;  I  wish  no  higher. 

Mary.  Dumb  ?  and  not  marry  ?  worse : 
Neither  to  speak,  nor  kiss,  a  double  curse  ! 

[Exit  MARY. 

Pye.  So,  all  this  comes  well  about  yet.  I  play  the 
fortune-teller  as  well  as  if  I  had  had  a  witch  to  my 
grannam  :  for.  by  good  happiness,  being  in  my  hostess's 
garden,  which  neighbors  the  orchard  of  the  widow,  I 
laid  the  hole  of  mine  ear  to  a  hole  in  the  wall,  and 
heard  'em  make  these  vows,  and  speak  those  words, 
upon  which  I  wrought  these  advantages  ;  and,  to  en- 
courage my  forgery  the  more,  I  may  now  perceive  in 
'em  a  naturnl  simplicity  which  will  easily  swallow  an 
abuse,  if  any  covering  be  over  it;  and,  to  confirm  my 
former  presage  to  the  widow,  I  have  advised  old  Peter 
Skirmish  the  soldier  to  hurt  Corporal  Oath  upon  the 
leg;  —  and,  in  that  hurry,  I'll  rush  amongst  'em  —  and, 
instead  of  giving  the  corporal  some  cordial  to  comfort 
him,  I'll  pour  into  his  mouth  a  potion  of  a  sleepy  na- 
ture, and  make  him  seem  as  dead :  for  the  which  the 
old  soldier  being  apprehended,  and  ready  to  be  borne 
to  execution,  I'll  step  in,  and  take  upon  me  the  cure 
of  the  dead  man,  upon  pain  of  dying  the  condemned'a 
death.  The  corporal  will  wake  at  this  minute,  when 
the  sleepy  force  hath  wrought  itself,  and  so  shall  I 
get  myself  into  a  most  admired  opinion,  and,  under 
the  pretext  of  that  cunning,  beguile  as  I  see  occasion. 
And  if  that  foolish  Nicholas  Saint  Antlings  keep  true 
time  with  the  chain,  my  plot  will  be  sound,  the  captain 
delivered,  and  my  wits  applauded  amongst  scholars 
aud  soldiers  for  ever.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Garden. 
Enter  NICHOLAS,  with  the  Chain. 

Nich.  O,  I  have  found  an  excellent  advantage  to 
take  away  the  chain.  My  master  put  it  off  e'en  now, 
to  'say  on  a  new  doublet,2  and  I  sneaked  it  away  by 

>  « 'Say  on" — that  is,  essay  to  do  on  or  don  a  new  doublet 


128     THE  PURITAN ;  OR,  THE  WIDOW  OF  WATLING  STREET. 

little  and  little,  most  puritanically  !     We  shall  have        Frail.  Ay,  I  knew,  by  their  shuffling,  clubs  would 

good  sport  anon,  when  he  has  missed  it,  about  my    be  trurnp.     Mass  !  here's  the  knave,  an  he  can  do 

cousin  the  conjurer.    The  world  shall  see  I'm  an  hon-    any  good  upon 'em.    Clubs  !  clubs  !  clubs  ! 

est  man  of  my  word :  for  now  I'm  going  to  hang  it  [Exit  FRAILTY 

between  heaven  and  earth  amongst  the  rosemary-  Enter  PYEBOARD. 

branches.  [Exit. 

Corp.  0,  villain !  thou  hast  opened  a  vein  in  my 
leg. 

Pye.  How  now  ?  For  shame,  for  shame  !  put  jip, 
put  up. 

Corp.  By  yon  blue  welkin,  'twas  out  of  my  part, 
George,  to  be  hurt  on  the  leg. 

Enter  Officers. 

Pye.  Oh,  peace,,  now.  I  have  a  cordial  here  to 
comfort  thee. 

OJfi.  Down  with  'em,  down  with  'em ;  lay  hands 
upon  the  villain ! 

Skir.  Lay  hands  on  me  ? 

Pye.  I'll  not  be  seen  among  'em  now. 

[Exit  PYEBOARD. 

Corp.  I'm  hurt,  and  had  more  need  to  have  a  sur- 
Lay  hands  upon  me,  than  rough  officers.  [geon 

Off,.  Go,  carry  him  to  be  dressed,  then  : 

[Exeunt  some  with  OATH. 
This  mutinous  soldier  shall  along  with  me 
To  prison. 

Skir.        To  prison  ?  where's  George  ? 

Qffi.  Away  with  him  ! 

[Exeunt  Officers  with  SKIRMISH. 

SCENE  II.—  The  same. 

Enter  PYEBOARD. 
Pye.  So  ! 

All  lights  as  I  would  wish.    The  amazed  widow 
Will  plant  me  strongly  now  in  her  belief, 
And  wonder  at  the  virtue  of  my  words : 
For  the  event  turns  those  presages  from  them, 
Of  being  mad  and  dumb,  and  begets  joy 
Mingled  with  admiration.    These  empty  creatures, 
Soldier  and  corporal,  were  but  ordained 
As  instruments  for  me  to  work  upon. 
Now  to  my  patient :  here's  his  potion. 

[Exit  PYEBOARD. 

SCENE  III.  —  An  Apartment  in  the  Widow's  House. 
Enter  the  Widow,  FRANCES,  and  MARY. 

Wid.  O  wondrous  happiness,  beyond  our  thoughts  ! 
0  lucky,  fair  event !     I  think  our  fortunes 
Were  blest  even  in  our  cradles :  we  are  'quitted 
Of  all  those  shameful,  violent  presages 
By  this  rash,  bleeding  chance.    Go,  Frairty    un,  and 
Whether  he  be  yet  living,  or  yet  dead,  [know 

That  here  before  my  door  received  his  hurt. 

Frail.  Madam,  he  was  carried  to  the  superior ;  but 
if  he  had  no  money  when  he  came  there,  I  warrant 
he's  dead  by  this  time.  [Exit  FRAILTY. 

Frances.  Sure  that  man  is  a  rare  fortune-teller  !  — 
never  looked  upon  our  hands,  nor  upon  any  mark 
about  us ;  a  wondrous  fellow,  surely. 

Mary.  I  am  glad  I  have  the  use  of  my  tongue  yet, 
though  of  nothing  else.  I  shall  find  the  way  to  mar- 
ry, too,  I  hope,  shortly. 

Wid.  0,  where's  my  brother  Sir  Godfrey?  I  would 
he  were  here,  that  1  might  relate  to  him  how  prophet- 
ically the  cunning  gentleman  spoke  in  all  things. 


ACT   III. 

•SCENE  I.—  The  Street  before  the  Widow's  House. 
Enter  SIMON  and  FRAILTY. 

Frail.  Sirrah,  Simon  Saint  Mary-Overies,  my  mis- 
tress sends  away  all  her  suitors,  and  puts  fleas  in 
their  ears. 

Sim.  Frailty,  she  does  like  an  honest,  chaste,  and 
virtuous  woman  ;  for  widows  ought  not  to  wallow  in 
the  puddle  of  iniquity. 

Frail.  Yet,  Simon,  many  widows  will  do't,  what- 
soe'er comes  on't. 

Sim.  True,  Frailty ;  their  filthy  flesh  desires  a  con- 
junction copulative.  What  strangers  are  within, 
Frailty  ? 

Frail.  There's  none,  Simon,  but  Master  Pilfer  the 
tailor ;  he's  above,  with  Sir  Godfrey,  'praising1  of  a 
doublet :  and  I  must  trudge  anon  to  fetch  Master 
Suds  the  barber. 

Sim.  Master  Suds's  a  good  man :  he  washes  the 
sins  of  the  beard  clean. 

Enter  SKIRMISH. 

Skir.  How  now,  creatures  ?  what's  o'clock  ? 

Frail.  Why,  do  you  take  us  to  be  jacks  o'  the 
clock-house  ?2 

Skir.  I  say  again  to  you,  what's  o'clock  ? 

Sim.  Truly,  la  !  we  go  by  the  clock  of  our  con- 
science. All  worldly  clocks  we  know  go  false,  and 
are  set  by  drunken  sextons. 

Skir.  Then  what  is't  o'clock  in  your  conscience  ? 
Oh,  I  must  break  oiF:  here  comes  the  corporal. — 

Enter  Corporal. 

Hum  .'  buna  !     What  is't  o'clock  ? 

Corp.  O'clock  ?  why,  past  seventeen  ! 

Frail.  Past  seventeen  ?  Nay,  he  has  met  with  his 
match  now :  Corporal  Oath  will  fit  him. 

Skir.  Thou  dost  not  balk  or  baffle  me,  dost  thou  ? 
I  am  a  soldier.  Past  seventeen  ! 

Corp.  Ay,  thou  art  not  angry  with  the  figures,  art 
thou  ?  I  will  prove  it  unto  thee  :  twelve  and  one  is 
thirteen,  I  hope ;  two,  fourteen  ;  three,  fifteen ;  four, 
sixteen;  and  five,  seventeen :  then,  past  seventeen. 
I  will  take  the  dial's  part  in  a  just  cause. 

Skir.  I  say  'tis  but  past  five,  then. 

Corp.  I'll  swear  'tis  past  seventeen,  then.  Dost 
thou  not  know  numbers  ?  Canst  thou  not  cast  ? 

Skir.  Cast  ?  Dost  thou  speak  of  my  casting  i'th' 
street  ?s  [  They  draw  and  fight. 

Corp.  Ay,  and  in  the  market-place. 

Sim.  Clubs  !  clubs !  clubs !          [SIMON  runs  away. 

1  Appraising. 

*  Figures  formerly  placed  in  the  great  clocks  of  churches, 
•which,  by  mechanism,  struck  the  hours. 

s  To  "  cast  in  the  street''  was  a  cant  phrase  for  Yomiting. 
Hence  the  insult  conveyed  by  the  word  casting. 


ACT  III.  — SCENE  IV. 


129 


Enter  Sir  GODFREY,  in  a  rage. 

Sir  God.  0,  my  chain,  my  chain  !  I  have  lost  my 
chain.  Where  be  these  villains,  varlets  ? 

Wid.  Oh  !  he  has  lost  his  chain. 

Sir  God.  My  chain,  my  chain ! 

Wid.  Brother,  be  patient ;  hear  me  speak.  You 
know  I  told  you  that  a  cunning-man  told  me  that  you 
should  have  a  loss,  and  he  has  prophesied  so  true  — 

Sir  God.  Out !  he's  a  villain  to  prophesy  of  the  loss 
of  my  chain.  'Twas  worth  above  three  hundred 
crowns.  Besides,  'twas  my  father's,  my  father's  fa- 
ther's, my  grandfather's  huge  grandfather's.1  I  had 
as  lief  ha'  lost  my  neck  as  the  chain  that  hung  about 
it.  0,  my  chain,  my  chain  ! 

Wid.  Oh,  brother,  who  can  be  guarded  against  a 
misfortune  ?  'Tis  happy  'twas  no  more. 

Sir  God.  No  more  ?  O  goodly,  godly  sister,  would 
you  had  me  lost  more  ?  My  best  gown,  too,  with  the 
cloth  of  gold  lace?  my  holyday  gaskins,  and  my  jer- 
kin set  with  pearl  ?  No  more  ! 

Wid.  Oh,  brother,  you  can  read 

Sir  God.  But  I  can  not  read  where  my  chain  is. 
What  strangers  have  been  here  ?  You  let  in  stran- 
gers, thieves,  and  catchpoles.  How  comes  it  gone  ? 
There  was  none  above  with  me  but  my  tailor,  and 
my  tailor  will  not  steal,  I  hope. 

Mary.  No,  he's  afraid  of  a  chain. 

Enter  FRAILTY. 

Wid.  How  now,  sirrah  ?  the  news  ? 

Frail.  0,  mistress,  he  may  well  be  called  a  corpo- 
ral now,  for  his  corpse  is  as  dead  as  a  cold  capon's. 

Wid.  More  happiness. 

Sir  God.  Sirrah,  what's  this  to  my  chain  ?  where's 
my  chain,  knave  ? 

Frail.  Your  chain,  sir  ? 

Sir  God.  My  chain  is  lost,  villain. 

Frail.  I  would  he  were  hanged  in  chains  that  has 
it,  then.  For  me,  alas !  sir,  I  saw  none  of  your  chain 
since  you  were  hung  with  it  yourself. 

Sir  God.  Out,  varlet !  —  it  had  full  three  thousand 
I  have  oft  told  it  over  at  my  prayers  —  [links  : 

Over  and  over  ;  —  full  three  thousand  links. 

Frail.  Had  it  so,  sir?  Sure  it  can  not  be  lost,  then. 
I'll  put  you  in  that  comfort. 

Sir  God.  Why?  why? 

Frail.  Why,  if  your  chain  had  so  many  links,  it  can 
not  choose  but  come  to  light.8 

Enter  NICHOLAS. 

Sir  God.  Delusion  !  Now,  long  Nicholas,  where  is 
my  chain  ? 

Nick.  Why,  about  your  neck,  is't  not,  sir  ? 

Sir  God.  About  my  neck,  varlet  ?  my  chain  is  lost ; 
'tis  stolen  away ;  I'm  robbed. 

Wid.  Nay,  brother,  show  yourself  a  man. 

Nick.  If  it  be  only  lost  or  stole,  if  he  would  be  pa- 
tient, mistress,  I  could  bring  him  to  a  cunning  fins- 
man  of  mine,  that  would  fetch  it  again  with  a  sesa- 
rara.3 

Sir  God.  Canst  thou  ?  I  will  be  patient :  say,  where 
dwells  he  ? 

i  A  huge  grandfather  is  no  more  than  a  great-grandfather. 

*  A  link  was  a  torch  or  light. 

3  Certiorari  is  probably  intended — "  to  be  made  more  cer- 
tain"—the  term  and  tenor  of  a  law-writ.  In  pur  forest  re- 
gions, the  vulgar  corruption  makes  it  a  "  sashirary." 


Nich.  Marry,  he  dwells  now,  sir,  where  he  would 
not  dwell  an  he  could  choose  —  in  the  Marshalsea, 
sir  ;  but  he's  an  excellent  fellow  if  he  were  out :  has 
travelled  all  the  world  over,  he,  and  been  in  the  seven- 
and-twenty  provinces.  Why,  he  would  make  it  be 
fetched,  sir,  if  it  were  rid  a  thousand  mile  out  of 
town. 

Sir  God.  An  admirable  fellow  !    What  lies  he  for  ? 

Nich.  Why,  he  did  but  rob  a  steward  of  ten  groats 
t'other  night,  as  any  man  would  ha'  done,  and  there 
he  lies  for't. 

Sir  God.  I'll  make  his  peace.    A  trifle  !  I'll  get  his 
Besides  a  bountiful  reward.    I'll  about  it ;     [pardon, 
But  see  the  clerks  ;  the  justice  will  do  much : 
I  will  about  it  straight.    Good  sister,  pardon  me  ; 
All  will  be  well,  I  hope,  and  turn  to  good : 
The  name  of  conjurer  has  laid  my  blood.      [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.—  A  Street. 
Enter  PUTTOCK,  RAVENSHAW,  and  DOGSON. 

Put.  His  hostess  where  he  lies  will  trust  him  no  long- 
er. She  hath  feed  me  to  arrest  him.  And  If  you  will 
accompany  me  —  because  I  know  not  of  what  nature 
the  scholar  is,  whether  desperate  or  swift4  —  you 
shall  share  with  me,  Sergeant  Ravenshaw.  I  have 
the  good  angel  to  arrest  him.s 

Rav.  Troth,  I'll  take  part  with  thee,  then,  ser- 
geant ;  not  for  the  sake  of  the  money  so  much,  as  for 
the  hate  I  bear  to  a  scholar.  Why,  sergeant,  'tis 
natural  in  us,  you  know,  to  hate  scholars  —  natural, 
because  they  will  publish  our  imperfections,  knave- 
ries, and  conveyances  upon  scaffolds  and  stages. 

Put.  Ay,  and  spitefully  too.  Troth,  I  have  won- 
dered how  the  slaves  could  see  into  our  breasts  so 
much,  when  our  doublets  are  buttoned  with  pewter. 

Rav.  Ay,  and  so  close  without  yielding.  Oh,  they're 
parlous  fellows ;  they  will  search  more  with  their 
wits  than  a  constable  with  all  his  officers. 

Put.  Whist,  whist,  whist,  yeoman  Dogson,  yeoman 
Dogson. 

Dog.  Ha  ?  what  says  sergeant  ? 

Put.  Is  he  in  the  'pothecary's  shop  still  ? 

Dog.  Ay,  ay ! 

Put.  Have  an  eye,  have  an  eye. 

Rav.  The  best  is,  sergeant,  if  he  be  a  true  scholar 
he  wears  no  weapon,  I  think. 

Put.  No,  no,  he  wears  no  weapon. 

Rav.  Mass,  I  am  right  glad  of  that :  it  has  put  me 
in  better  heart.  Nay,  if  I  clutch  him  once,  let  me 
alone  to  drag  him  if  he  be  stiff-necked  —  I  have  been 
one  of  the  six  myself,  that  has  dragged  as  tall  men 
of  their  hands,  when  their  weapons  have  been  gone, 
as  ever  bastinadoed  a  sergeant.  I  have  done  I  can 
tell  you. 

Dog.  Sergeant  Puttock,  Sergeant  Puttock. 

Put.  Ho ! 

Dog.  He's  coming  out  single. 

Put.  Peace,  peace,  be  not  too  greedy;  let  him  play 
a  little,  let  him  play  a  little  ;  we'll  jerk  him  up  of  a 
sudden.  I  ha'  fished  in  my  time. 

Rav.  Ay,  and  caught  many  a  fool,  sergeant. 

Enter  PYEBOARD. 

Pye.    I  parted  now  from  Nich'las :  the  chain's 
couched, 

4  That  is,  whether  he  will  stand  and  fight,  or  run. 
6  He  means  the  coin  of  that  name. 


130     THE  PURITAN ;  OR,  THE  WIDOW  OF  WATLING  STREET. 


And  the  old  knight  has  spent  his  rage  upon't. 
The  widow  holds  me  in  great  admiration 
For  cunning  art :  'mongst  joys  I'm  even  lost, 
For  my  device  can  no  way  now  be  crossed  ;  — 
And  now  I  must  to  prison,  to  the  captain, 
And  there  — 

Put.  I  arrest  you,  sir. 

Pye.  Oh !  I  spoke  truer  than  I  was  aware ; 
I  must  to  prison,  indeed. 

Put.  They  say  you're  a  scholar,  —  Nay,  sir : — yeo- 
man Dogson,  have  care  to  his  arms.  —  You'll  rail 
against  sergeants,  and  stage  'em  ?  You'll  tickle  their 
vices  ? 

Pye.  Nay,  use  me  like  a  gentleman ;  I'm  little  less. 

Put.  You  a  gentleman  !  that's  a  good  jest,  i'faith. 
Can  a  scholar  be  a  gentleman,  when  a  gentleman  will 
not  be  a  scholar  ?  Look  upon  your  wealthy  citizen's 
sons,  whether  they  be  scholars  or  no.  that  are  gentle- 
men by  their  fathers'  trades.  A  scholar  a  gentleman  ! 

Pye.  Nay,  let  fortune  drive  all  her  stings  into  me, 
she  can  not  hurt  that  in  me.  A  gentleman  is  accidens 
inseparable  to  my  blood. 

Rav.  A  rabJement !  nay,  you  shall  have  a  bloody 
rablement  upon  you,  I  warrant  you. 

Put.  Go,  yeoman  Dogson,  before,  and  enter  the  ac- 
tion i'th'  counter.  [Exit  DOGSON. 

Pye.  Pray  do  not  handle  me  cruelly ;  I'll  go 
Whither  you  please  to  have  me. 

Put.  Oh,  he's  tame  ;  let  him  loose,  sergeant. 

Pye.  Pray,  at  whose  suit  is  this  ? 

Put.  Why,  at  your  hostess's  suit,  where  you  lie ;  — 
Mistress  Conyburrow's,  for  bed  and  board,  —  the  sum 
four  pound,  five  shillings,  and  five  pence. 

Pye.  I  know  the  sum  too  true,  yet  I  presumed 
Upon  a  further  day.    Well,  'tis  my  stars  ; 
And  I  must  bear  it  now,  though  never  harder. 
I  swear  now,  my  device  is  crossed  indeed. 
Captain  must  lie  by't  :l  this  is  deceit's  seed. 

Put.  Come,  come  away. 

Pye.  Pray,  give  me  so  much  time  as  to  knit  my 

garter, 
And  I'll  away  with  you. 

Put.  Well,  we  must  be  paid  for  this  waiting  upon 
you ;  this  is  no  pains  to  attend  thus.3 

[PYEBOARD  pretends  to  tie  his  garter. 

Pye.  I  am  now  wretched  and  miserable ;  I  shall 
never  recover  of  this  disease.  Hot  iron  gnaw  their 
fists  !  They  have  struck  a  fever  into  my  shoulder, 
which  I  shall  ne'er  shake  out  again,  I  fear  me,  till, 
with  a  true  habeas  corpus,  the  sexton  remove  me. 
Oh,  if  I  take  prison  once,  I  shall  be  pressed  to  death 
with  actions ;  but  not  so  happily  as  speedily ;  per- 
haps I  may  be  forty  year  a  pressing  till  I  be  a  thin 
old  man  ;  that,  looking  through  the  grates,  men  may 
look  through  me.  All  my  means  confounded,  what 
shall  I  do  ?  Have  my  wits  served  me  so  long,  now  to 
give  me  the  slip,  like  a  trained  servant,  when  I  have 
most  need  of  'em  ?  No  device  to  keep  my  poor  car- 
cass from  these  puttocks  ?  —  Yes,  happiness !  have  I 
a  paper  about  me  now  ? 

Yes,  two ;  I'll  try  it,  it  may  hit ; 
Extremity  is  touchstone  unto  wit. 
Ay  !  Ay  !  [Answering  Officer. 

Put.  'Sfoot,  how  many  yards  are  in  thy  garters, 

1  Or  lost  by  it 

*  That  is,  there  is  neither  pain  nor  penalty  which  compels 
us  to  this  servility. 


that  thou  art  so  long  a  tying  of  them  ?    Come  away, 
sir. 

Pye.  Troth,  sergeant,  I  protest,  you  could  never 
have  took  me  at  a  worse  time  ;  for  now,  at  this  in- 
stant, I  have  no  lawful  picture'  about  me. 

Put.  'Slid,  how  shall  we  come  by  our  fees,  then  ? 

Rav.  We  must  have  fees,  sirrah. 

Pye.  I  could  have  wished,  i'faith,  that  you  had  took 
me  half  an  hour  hence  for  your  own  sake,  for  I  pro- 
test if  you  had  not  crossed  me,  I  was  going  in  great 
joy  to  receive  five  pound  of  a  gentleman,  for  the  device 
of  a  mask  here,  drawn  in  this  paper.  But  now,  come, 
I  must  be  contented ;  'tis  but  so  much  lost,  and  an- 
swerable to  the  rest  of  my  fortunes  ? 

Put.  Why,  how  far  hence  dwells  that  gentleman  ? 

Rav.  Ay,  well  said,  sergeant ;  'tis  good  to  cast 
about  for  money. 

Put.  Speak,  if  it  be  not  far 

Pye.  We  are  but  a  little  past  it ;  the  next  street  be- 
hind us. 

Put.  'Slid,  we  have  waited  upon  you  grievously  al- 
ready ;  if  you'll  say  you'll  be  liberal  when  you  have 
it ;  give  us  double  fees,  and  spend  upon  us  ;  why, 
•we'll  show  you  that  kindness,  and  go  along  with  you 
to  the  gentleman. 

Rac.  Ay,  well  said  still,  sergeant ;  urge  that. 

Pye.  Troth,  if  it  will  suffice,  it  shall  all  be  among 
you  ;  for  my  part  I'll  not  pocket  a  penny  ;  my  hostess 
shall  have  her  four  pound,  five  shillings,  and  bate  me 
the  five  pence,  and  the  other  fifteen  shillings  I'll 
spend  upon  you. 

Rav.  Why  now  thou  art  a  good  scholar. 

Put.  An  excellent  scholar,  i'faith ;  has  proceeded 
very  well  o'  late.  Come,  we'll  along  with  you. 

[Exeunt  PCTTOCK,  RAVENSHAW,  and  PYEEOARD. 
The  latter  knocks  at  the  door  of  a  Gentleman's 
house,  at  the  inside  of  the  stage. 

SCENE  V.— A  Gallery  in  a  Gentleman's  House. 
Enter  a  Servant. 

Sere.  Who  knocks  ?  who's  at  door  ?  We  had  need 
of  a  porter. 

Pye.  [within].  A  few  friends  here — pray  is  the 
gentleman  your  master  within  ? 

Serv.  Yes ;  is  your  business  to  him  ? 

[Opens  the  door  ;  enter  PYEBOARD,  PUT- 
TOCK,  RAVENSHAW,  and  DOGSON. 

Pye.  Ay,  he  knows  it  when  he  sees  me  : 
I  pray  you,  have  you  forgot  me  ? 

Serv.  Ay,  by  my  troth,  sir  ;  pray,  come  near  ;  I'll 
in  and  tell  him  of  you.  Please  you  to  walk  here  in 
the  gallery  till  he  comes.  [Exit  Servant. 

Pye.  We  will  attend  his  worship.  —  Worship,  I 
think  ;  for  so  much  the  posts  at  his  door  should  sig- 
nify,4 and  the  fair  coming  in,  and  the  wicket ;  else,  I 
neither  knew  him  nor  his  worship ;  but  'tis  happiness 
he  is  within  doors,  whatsoe'er  he  be.  If  he  be  not 
too  much  a  formal  citizen,  he  may  do  me  good 
[aside].  Sergeant  and  yeoman,  how  do  you  like  this 
house  ?  Is't  not  most  wholesomely  plotted  ?5 

Rav.  Troth,  prisoner,  an  exceeding  fine  house. 

Pye.  Yet  I  wonder  how  he  should  forget  me  ;  —  for 

3  Lawful  coin.  The  picture  of  his  majesty. 
<  Posts  at  the  door,  in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time,  were  signs 
of  a  justice  of  the  peace  and  sheriff. 
6  Laid  out— the  ground-plot,  the  garden. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  V. 


131 


he  ne'er  know  me  [aside].    No  matter,  what  is  forgot 
in  you  will  be  remembered  in  your  master. 
:A  pretty  comfortable  room  this,  mcthinks  : 
You  have  no  such  rooms  in  prison  now  ? 

Put.  Oh,  dog-holes  to't. 

Pye.  Dog-holes,  indeed.  I  can  tell  you,  I  have 
great  hope  to  have  my  chamber  here  shortly,  nay, 
and  diet  too  ;  for  he's  the  most  free-heartedst  gen- 
tie  man  where  he  takes:  you  would  little  think  it? 
And  what  a  fine  gallery  were  here  for  me  to  walk  and 
study,  and  make  verses. 

Put.  0,  it  stands  pleasantly  for  a  scholar. 

Enter  Gentleman. 

Pye.  Look  what  maps,  and  pictures,  and  devices, 
and  things,  neatly,  delicately  !  Mass,  here  he  comes  j 
he  should  be  a  gentleman  ;  I  like  his  beard  well.  —  All 
happiness  to  your  worship. 

Gent.  You're  kindly  welcome,  sir. 

Put.  A  simple  salutation. 

Rav.  Mass,  it  seems  the  gentleman  makes  great 
account  of  him. 

Pye.  [aloud] .  I  have  the  thing  here  for  you,  sir. 

[  Takes  the  Gentleman  aside. 

I  beseech  you,  conceal  me,  sir;  I'm  undone  else  [aside]. 
I  have  the  mask  here  for  you,  sir  [aloud].  —  Look 
you,  sir  [aside],  I  beseech  your  worship,  first  pardon 
my  rudeness,  for  my  extremes  make  me  bolder  than  I 
would  be.  I  am  a  poor  gentleman,  and  a  scholar,  and 
am  now  most  unfortunately  fallen  into  the  hands  of 
unmerciful  officers,  arrested  for  debt,  which,  though 
small,  I  am  not  able  to  compass,  by  reason  I  am  des- 
titute of  lands,  money,  and  friends  ;  so  that  if  I  fall 
into  the  hungry  swallow  of  the  prison,  I  am  like  ut- 
terly to  perish,  and  with  fees  and  extortions  be  pinch- 
ed clean  to  the  bone.  Now,  if  ever  pity  had  interest 
in  the  blood  of  a  gentleman,  I  beseech  you,  vouch- 
safe but  to  favor  that  means  of  my  escape  which  I 
have  already  thought  upon. 

Gent.  Go  forward. 

Put.  I  warrant  he  likes  it  rarely. 

Pye.  In  the  plunge  of  my  extremities,  being  giddy, 
and  doubtful  what  to  do,  at  last  it  was  put  into  my 
laboring  thoughts,  to  make  a  happy  use  of  this  paper ; 
and  to  blear  their  unlettered  eyes,  I  told  them  there 
was  a  device  for  a  mask  drawn  in't,  and  that  (but  for 
their  interception)  I  was  going  to  a  gentleman  to  re- 
ceive my  reward  for't.  They,  greedy  at  this  word, 
and  hoping  to  make  purchase  of  me,  offered  their 
attendance,  to  go  along  with  me.  My  hap  was  to 
make  bold  with  your  door,  sir,  which  my  thoughts 
showed  me  the  most  fairest  and  comfortablest  en- 
trance ;  and  I  hope  I  have  happened  right  upon  un- 
derstanding and  pity.  May  it  please  your  good  wor- 
ship, then,  but  to  uphold  my  device,  which  is  to  let 
one  of  your  men  put  me  out  at  a  back-door,  and  I 
shall  be  bound  to  your  worship  for  ever. 

Gent.  By  my  troth,  an  excellent  device. 

Put.  An  excellent  device,  he  says  j  he  likes  it  won- 
derfully. 

Gent.  0'  my  faith,  I  never  heard  a  better. 

Rav.  Hark,  he  swears  he  never  heard  a  better,  ser- 
geant. 

Put.  0,  there's  no  talk  on't ;  he's  an  excellent 
scholar,  and  especially  for  a  mask. 

Gent.  Give  me  your  paper,  your  device.  I  was 
never  better  pleased  in  all  my  life :  good  wit,  brave 


wit,  finely  wrought !  come  in,  sir,  and  receive  your 
money,  sir.  [Exit  vnthin. 

Pye.  I'll  follow  your  good  worship.  —  You  heard 
how  he  liked  it,  now? 

Put.  Puh,  we  knew  he  could  not  choose  but  like  it. 
Go  thy  ways ;  thou  art  a  fine  witty  fellow,  i'faith  ; 
thou  shall  discourse  it  to  us  at  the  tavern,  anon  ;  wilt 
thou? 

Pye.  Ay,  ay,  that  I  will.  Look,  sergeant,  here  are 
maps  and  pretty  toys ;  be  doing,  in  the  meantime  ;  I 
shall  quickly  have  told  out  the  money,  you  know. 

Put.  Go,  go,  little  villain  ;  fetch  thy  chink  ;  I  be- 
gin to  love  thee ;  —  I'll  be  drunk  to-night  in  thy  com- 
pany. 

Pye.  This  gentleman  I  may  well  call  a  part 
Of  my  salvation,  in  these  earthly  evils, 
For  he  has  saved  me  from  three  hungry  devils. 

[Exit  PYEBOARD. 

Put.  Sirrah,  sergeant,  these  maps  are  pretty  paint- 
ed things,  but  I  could  ne'er  fancy  them  yet ;  —  me- 
thinks  they're  too  busy,  and  full  of  circles  and  conju- 
rations ;  they  say  all  the  world's  in  one  of  them,  but 
I  could  ne'er  find  the  counter  in  the  poultry.1 

Rav.  I  think  so.  How  could  you  find  it?  for  you 
know  it  stands  behind  these  houses. 

Dog.  Mass,  that's  true  ;  then  we  must  look  o'  the 
backside  for't :  'sfoot,  here's  nothing ;  all's  bare. 

Rav.  I  warrant  thee  that  stands  for  the  counter  ;  — 
for  you  know  there's  a  company  of  bare  fellows  there. 

Put.  'Faith,  like  enough,  sergeant ;  I  never  marked 
so  much  before.  Sirrah  sergeant  and  yeoman,  I 
should  love  these  maps  out  o'  cry  now,  if  we  could 
see  men  peep  out  of  door  in  'em.  Oh,  we  might  have 
'em  in  a  morning  to  our  breakfast  so  finely,  and  ne'er 
knock  our  heels  to  the  ground  a  whole  day  for  'em. 

Rav.  Ay,  marry,  sir,  I'd  buy  one  then  myself.  But 
this  talk  is  by  the  way.  Where  shall's  sup  to-night  ? 
Five  pound  received,  —  let's  talk  of  that.  I  have  a 
trick  worth  all.  You  two  shall  bear  him  to  th'  tav- 
ern, whilst  I  go  close  with  his  hostess,  and  work  out 
of  her.  I  know  she  would  be  glad  of  [halfj  the  sum, 
to  finger  [the]  money  ;  because  she  knows  'tis  but  a 
desperate  debt,  and  full  of  hazard.  What  will  you 
say  if  I  bring  it  to  pass,  that  the  hostess  shall  be  con- 
tented with  one  half  for  all,  and  we  to  share  t'other 
fifty  shillings,  bullies  ? 

Put.  Why,  I  would  call  thee  king  of  sergeants,  and 
thou  shouldst  be  chronicled  in  the  counter-book  for 
ever. 

Rav.  Well,  put  it  to  me  ;  we'll  make  a  night  on't, 
i'faith. 

Dog.  'Sfoot,  I  think  he  receives  more  money,  he 
stays  so  long. 

Put.  He  tarries  long,  indeed.  May  be,  I  can  tell 
you,  upon  the  good  liking  on't  the  gentleman  may 
prove  more  bountiful. 

Rav.  That  would  be  rare  ;  we'll  search  him. 

Put.  Nay,  be  sure  of  it ;  we'll  search  him,  and 
make  him  light  enough. 

Enter  Gentleman. 

Rav.  Oh,  here  comes  the  gentleman.  By  your 
leave,  sir. 

Gen.  Give1  you  god  den  sirs,  —  Would  you  speak 
with  me  ? 

1  The  prison,  BO  called. — MALONE.    %  In  other  copies  " god." 


132     THE  PURITAN ;  OR,  THE  WIDOW  OF  WATLING  STREET. 


Put.  No,  not  with  your  worship,  sir  ;  only  we  are 
bold  to  stay  for  a  friend  of  ours  that  went  in  with 
your  worship. 

Gen.  Who  ?  Not  the  scholar  ? 

Put.  Yes,  e'en  he,  an  it  please  your  worship. 

Gen.  Did  he  make  you  stay  for  him  !  he  did  you 
wrong,  then  :  why,  I  can  assure  you  he's  gone  above 
an  hour  ago. 

Rav.  How,  sir? 

Gen.  I  paid  him  his  money,  and  my  man  told  me 
he  went  out  at  back-door. 

Put.  Back-door? 

Gen.  Why,  what's  the  matter  ? 

Put.  He  was  our  prisoner,  sir  ;  we  did  arrest  him. 

Gen.  What !  he  was  not  ?     You  the  sheriff's  offi- 
cers? 

You  were  to  blame,  then  ! 
Why  did  you  not  make  known  to  me  as  much  ? 
I  could  have  kept  him  for  you.    I  protest, 
He  received  all  of  me  in  Britain  gold, 
Of  the  last  coining. 

Rav.  Vengeance  dog  him  with't ! 

Put.  'Sfoot,  has  he  gulled  us  so  ? 

Dog.  Where  shall  we  sup  now,  sergeants  ? 

Put.  Sup,  Simon,  now!  eat  porridge  for  a  month. 
Well,  we  can  not  impute  it  to  any  lack  of  good  will 
in  your  worship  ;  —  you  did  but  as  another  would  have 
done  ;  'twas  our  hard  fortunes  to  miss  the  purchase  ; 
but  if  ever  we  clutch  him  again,  the  counter  shall 
charm  him. 

Rav.  The  hole  shall  rot  him.i 

Dog.  Amen.  [Exeunt  Sergeants. 

Gent.  So  :  — 

Vex  out  your  lungs  without  doors  ;  I  am  proud 
It  was  my  hap  to  help  him.     It  fell  fit :  — 
He  went  not  empty  neither  for  his  wit. 
Alas  !  poor  wretch,  I  could  not  blame  his  brain, 
To  labor  his  delivery,  to  be  free 
From  their  unpitying  fangs  ;  I'm  glad  it  stood 
Within  my  power  to  do  a  scholar  good.  [Exit, 

SCENE  VI. — A  Room  in  the  Marshalsea  Prison. 
Enter  Captain  IDLE  ;  to  him  PYEEOARD,  in  disguise. 

Capt.  How  now  ?  who's  that  ?  what  are  you  ? 

Pye.  The  same  that  I  should  be,  captain. 

Capt.  George  Pyeboard  ?  honest  George  !  Why 
com'st  thou  in  half-faced  and  muffled  so  ? 

Pye.  Oh,  captain,  I  thought  we  should  ne'er  have 
laughed  again,  never  spent  frolic  hour  again. 

Capt.  Why?  why? 

Pye.  I,  coming  to  prepare  thee,  and  with  news 
As  happy  as  thy  quick  delivery, 
Was  traced  out  by  the  scent  —  arrested,  captain. 

Capt.  Arrested,  George  ? 

Pye.  Arrested  !  guess,  how  many  dogs  do  you  think 
I  had  upon  me  ? 

Capt.  Dogs?  I  say,  I  know  not. 

Pye.  Almost  as  many  as  George  Stone,  the  bear:2 
Three  at  once,  three  at  once. 

Capt.  How  didst  thou  shake  'em  off,  then  ? 

Pye.  The  time  is  busy,  and  calls  upon  our  wits : 
Let  it  suffice  — 
Here  I  stand  safe,  and  'scaped  by  miracle  : 

i  One  of  the  worst  apartments  in  the  counter-prison. 
«  A  famous  bear  exhibited  at  Paris  garden,  and  called  af- 
ter his  owner. 


Some  other  hour  shall  tell  thee,  when  we'll  steep 
Our  eyes  in  laughter.    Captain,  my  device 
Leans  to  thy  happiness  ;  for,  ere  the  day 
Be  spent  to  th'  girdle,3  thou  shall  [sure]  be  free. 
The  corporal's  in's  first  sleep  ;  the  chain  is  missed ; 
Thy  kinsman  has  expressed  thee,4  and  the  old  knight 
With  palsy  hams5  now  labors  thy  release. 
What  rests,  is  all  in  thee  to  conjure,  captain. 

Capt.  Conjure?  'Sfoot!  George,  you  know  the  devil 
o'  conjuring  I  can  conjure. 

Pye.  The  devil  o'  conjuring?  Nay,  by  my  say,  I'd 
not  have  thee  do  so  much,  captain,  as  the  devil,  a- 
conjuring.  Look  here  :  I  have  brought  thee  a  circle, 
ready  charactered  and  all. 

Capt.  'Sfoot  !  George,  art  in  thy  right  wits  ?  Dost 
know  what  thou  say'st  ?  Wrhy  dost  talk  to  a  captain 
of  conjuring  ?  Didst  thou  ever  hear  of  a  captain  con- 
jure in  thy  life  ?  Dost  call't  a  circle  ?  'Tis  too  wide 
a  thing,  methinks.  Had  it  been  a  lesser  circle,  then 
I  knew  what  to  have  done. 

Pye.  Why,  every  fool  knows  that,  captain.  Nay, 
then  I'll  not  cog  with  you,  captain  ;  if  you'll  stay  and 
hang,  the  next  sessions,  you  may. 

Capt.  No,  by  my  faith,  George.  Come,  come  ;  let's 
to  conjuring. 

Pye.  But  if  you  look  to  be  released  (as  my  wits 
have  took  pain  to  work  it,  and  all  means  wrought  to 
further  it),  besides,  to  put  crowns  in  your  purse  ;  to 
make  you  a  man  of  better  hopes  ;  and,  whereas,  be- 
fore you  were  a  captain  or  poor  soldier,  to  make  you 
now  a  commander  of  rich  fools  —  which  is  truly  the 
only  best  purchase  peace  can  allow  you  —  safer  than 
highways,  heath,  or  cony-groves,  and  yet  a  far  bet- 
ter booty  ;  for  your  greatest  thieves  are  never  hanged, 
never  hanged:  for  why?  they're  wise,  and  cheat  with- 
in doors ;  and  we  geld  fools  of  more  money  in  one 
night  than  your  false-tailed  geldings  will  purchase  in 
a  twelve-month's  running — which  confirms  the  old 
beldam's  saying  :  He's  u-isest  that  keeps  himself  warm- 
est ;  that  is,  he  that  robs  by  a  good  fire. 

Capt.  Well  opened,  i'faith,  George  ;  thou  hast  pulled 
that  saying  out  of  the  husk. 

Pye.  Captain  Idle,  'tis  no  time  now  to  delude  or  de- 
lay. The  old  knight  will  be  here  suddenly.  I'll  per- 
feet  you,  direct  you,  tell  you  the  trick  on't :  'tis  noth- 
ing. 

Ciipt.  'Sfoot  !  George,  I  know  not  what  to  say  to't 
Conjure?    I  shall  be  hanged  ere  I  conjure. 
Pye.  Nay,  tell  not  me  of  that,  captain  ;  you'll  ne'er 
onjure  after  you're  hanged,  I  warrant  you.     Look 
you,  sir  :  a  parlous  matter,  sure  !  first,  to  spread  your 
circle  upon  the  ground;  then,  with  a  little  conjuring 
ceremony  (as  I'll  have  a  hackney-man's  wand  silvered 
o'er  a-purpose  for  you)  ;  then,  arriving  in  the  circle, 
with  a  huge  word,  and  a  great  trample  —  as,  for  in- 
stance, have  you  never  seen  a  stalking,  stamping  play- 
r,  that  will  raise  a  tempest  with  his  tongue,  and  thun- 
der with  his  heels  ?T 

Capt.  0  yes,  yes,  yes  ;  often,  often. 
Pye.  Why,  be  like  such  a  one.    For  anything  will 
blear  the  old  knight's  eyes  ;  for  you  must  note  that 

3  To  the  horizon. 

*  Acted  thy  wishes. 

6  That  is,  bending.  He  is  seeking,  soliciting  on  thy  be- 
half. 

6  A  highwayman's  horse,  the  tail  of  which  is  removable  at 
the  will  of  the  owner. 

1  "A  robustious,  periwig-pated  fellow,"  &c. — Hamlet. 


ACT  III.  — SCENE  VI. 


133 


he'll  ne'er  dare  to  venture  into  the  room,  only  perhaps 
peep  fearfully  through  the  keyhole,  to  see  how  the 
play  goes  forward. 

Ca.pt.  Well,  1  may  go  about  it  when  I  will ;  —  but 
mark  the  end  on't :  I  shall  but  shame  myself,  i'faith, 
George.  Speak  big  words,  and  stamp  and  stare,  and 
he  look  in  at  keyhole  !  Why,  the  very  thought  of 
that  would  make  me  laugh  outright,  and  spoil  all. 
Nay,  I'll  tell  thee,  George,  when  I  apprehend  a  thing 
once,  I  am  of  such  a  laxative  laughter,  that,  if  the 
devil  himself  stood  by,  I  should  laugh  in  his  face  ! 

Pye.  Puh  !  that's  but  the  babe  of  a  man,  and  may 
easily  be  hushed  —  as,  to  think  upon  some  disaster, 
some  sad  misfortune,  as  the  death  of  thy  father  i'th' 
country. 

Capt.  'Sfoot !  that  would  be  the  more  to  drive  me 
into  such  an  ecstasy,  that  I  should  ne'er  lini  laughing 
else. 

Pye.  Why,  then,  think  upon  going  to  hanging. 

Capt.  Mass  !  that's  well  remembered  :  now  I'll  do 
well,  I  warrant  thee  ;  ne'er  fear  me  now.  But  how 
shall  I  do,  George,  for  boisterous  words  and  horrible 
names? 

Pye.  Puh  !  any  fustian  invocations,  captain,  will 
serve  as  well  as  the  best,  so  you  rant  them  out  well ; 
or  you  may  go  to  a  'pothecary's  shop,  and  take  all 
the  words  from  the  boxes. 

Capt.  Troth,  and  you  say  true,  George  :  there's 
strange  words  enow  to  raise  a  hundred  quack-salvers. 
though  they  be  ne'er  so  poor  when  they  begin.  But 
here  lies  the  fear  on't :  how,  if  in  this  false  conjura- 
tion, a  true  devil  should  pop  up  indeed  ? 

Pt/e.  A  true  devil,  captain  ?  why.  there  was  ne'er 
such  a  one.  Nay,  i'faith,  he  that  has  this  place,  is  as 
false  a  knave  as  our  last  church- warden. 

Capt.  Then  he's  false  enough  o'  conscience,  i'faith, 
George. 

[Prisoners  cry  within.]  Good  gentlemen  over  the 
way,  send  your  relief;  good  gentlemen  over  the  way, 
good  Sir  Godfrey  !  — 

Pye.  He's  come,  he's  come  ! 

Enter  Sir  GODFREY,  EDMOND,  and  NICHOLAS. 

Nich.  Master,  that's  my  kinsman  yonder,  in  the 
buffjerkin.  Kinsman,  that's  my  master  yonder,  i'th' 
taffaty  hat.  Pray,  salute  him  entirely. 

[Sir  GODFREY  and  IDLE  salute,  and 
PYEBOARD  salutes  EDMOND. 

Sir  God.  Now,  my  friend  — 

[Sir  GODFREY  and  IDLE  converse  apart. 

Pye.  May  I  partake  your  name,  sir  ? 

Edm.  My  name  is  Master  Edmond. 

Pye.  Master  Edmond  ?  Are  you  not  a  Welshman, 
sir? 

Edm.  A  Welshman  ?  why  ? 

Pye.  Because  master  is  your  Christian  name,  and 
Edmond  your  surname. 

Edm.  O  no  ;  I  have  more  names  at  home  :  Master 
Edmond  Plus  is  my  full  name  at  length. 

Pye.  O,  cry  you  mercy,  sir. 

Capt.  [asiJeto  Sir  GODFREY].  I  understand  that  you 
are  my  kinsman's  good  master,  and,  in  regard  of  that, 
the  best  of  my  skill  is  at  your  service.  But  had  you 
fortuned  a  mere  stranger,  and  made  no  means  to  me 
by  acquaintance,  I  should  have  utterly  denied  to  have 

i  '•  Lin" — to  stop,  to  cease. 


been  the  man  ;  both  by  reason  of  the  act  of  parlia- 
ment against  conjurers  and  witches,2  as  also  because 
I  would  not  have  my  art  vulgar,  trite,  and  common. 

Sir  God.  I  much  commend  your  care  there,  good 
captain  conjurer ;  and  that  I  will  be  sure  to  have  it 
private  enough,  you  shall  do't  in  my  sister's  house  — 
mine  own  house  I  may  call  it,  for  both  our  charges 
therein  are  proportioned. 

Capt.  Very  good,  sir.  What  may  I  call  your  loss, 
sir? 

Sir  God.  O,  you  may  call't  a  great  loss,  a  grievous 
loss,  sir  :  as  goodly  a  chain  of  gold,  though  I  say  it, 
that  wore  it  —  how  say'st  thou,  Nicholas  ? 

Nich.  O,  'twas  as  delicious  a  chain  of  gold,  kins- 
man, you  know 

Sir  God.  You  know  ?  did  you  know't,  captain  ? 

Capt.  Trust  a  fool  with  secrets!  [Aside].  Sir,  he 
may  say  I  know.  His  meaning  is,  because  my  art  is 
such,  that  by  it  1  may  gather  a  knowledge  of  all 
things 

Sir  God.  Ay,  very  true. 

Capt.  A  pox  of  all  fools  !  The  excuse  stuck  upon  my 
tongue  like  ship-pitch  upon  a  mariner's  gown,  not  to 
come  off  in  haste.  [Aside.]  —  By'r  l.uly,  knight,  to  lose 
such  a  fair  chain  of  gold  were  a  foul  loss.  Well,  I 
can  put  you  in  this  good  comfort  on't,  if  it  be  be- 
tween heaven  and  earih,  knight,  I'll  have  it  for  you. 

Sir  God.  A  wonderful  conjurer  !  O,  ay  ;  'tis  be- 
tween heaven  and  earth,  1  warrant  you  :  it  can  not  go 
out  of  the  realm.  I  know  'tis  somewhere  about  the 
earth. 

Capt.  Ay,  nigher  the  earth  than  thou  wot'st  of. 

[Aside. 

Sir  God.  For,  first,  my  chain  was  rich :  and  no  rich 
thing  shall  enter  into  heaven,  you  know. 

Nich.  And  as  for  the  devil,  master,  he  has  no  need 
on't,  for  you  know  he  has  a  great  chain  of  his  own. 

Sir  God.  Thou  say'st  true,  Nicholas,  but  he  has 
put  off  that  now  ;  that  lies  by  him. 

Capt.  I'faith,  knight,  in  few  words.  I  presume  so 
much  upon  the  power  of  my  art,  that  I  could  warrant 
your  chain  again. 

Sir  God.  O  dainty  captain  ! 

Capt.  Marry,  it  will  cost  me  much  sweat.  I  were 
better  go  to  sixteen  hot-houses. 

Sir  God.  Ay,  good  man,  I  warrant  thee. 

Capt.  Beside  great  vexation  of  kidney  and  liver.. 

Nich.  O,  'twill  tickte  you  hereabouts,  cousin,  be* 
cause  you  have  not  been  used  to't. 

Sir  God.  No?  Have  you  not  been  used  to't,  cap- 
tain ? 

Capt.  Plague  of  all  fools  still!  [ Aside. \  Indeed, 
knight,  I  have  not  used  it  a  good  while,  and  therefore 
'twill  strain  me  so  much  the  more,  you  know. 

Sir  God.  O,  it  will,  it  will ! 

Capt.  What  plunges  he  puts  me  to  !  Were  not  this 
knight  a  fool,  I  had  been  twice  spoiled  now.  That 
captain's  worse  than  accursed  that  has  an  ass  to  his 
kinsman.  'Sfoot !  I  fear  he  will  drivel  it  out  before 
I  come  to't.  [Aside.}  Now,  sir,  to  come  to  the  point 
indeed,  you  see  I  stick  here  in  the  jaw  of  the  Mar- 
shalsea,  and  can  not  do't. 

Sir  God.  Tut,  tut  —  I  know  thy  meaning.  Thou 
wouldst  say  thou'rt  a  prisoner.  I  tell  thee  thou  art 
none. 

a  An  act  passed  in  the  first  year  of  James  1.  t.1604). 


134    THE  PURITAN  ;  OR,  THE  WIDOW  OF  WATLING  STREET. 


Capt.  How,  none  ?  Why,  is  not  this  the  Marshal- 
sea  ? 

Sir  God.  Wilt  hear  me  speak  ?  I  heard  of  thy  rare 
conjuring :  — 

My  chain  was  lost ;  I  sweat  for  thy  release, 
As  thou  shall  do  the  like  at  home  for  me. — 
Keeper ! 

Enter  Keeper. 

Keep.  Sir ! 

Sir  God.  Speak,  is  not  this  man  free  ? 

Keep.  Yes,  at  his  pleasure,  sir,  the  fees  discharged. 

S/r  God.  Go,  go  ;  I'll  discharge  them,  I. 

Keep.  I  thank  your  worship.  [Exit  Keeper. 

Capt.  Now,  trust  me,  you  are  a  dear  knight.  Kind- 
ness unexpected  !  O,  there's  nothing  to  a  free  gen- 
tleman. I  will  conjure  for  you,  sir,  till  froth  come 
through  my  buff  jerkin. 

Sir  God.  Nay,  then  thou  shall  not  pass  wilh  so  lit- 
tle a  bounty,  for,  at  the  first  sight  of  my  chain  again, 
forty-five  angels  shall  appear  unto  thee. 

Capt.  'Twill  be  a  glorious  show,  i'faith,  knight,  a 
very  fine  show  ;  but  are  all  these  of  your  own  house  ? 
are  you  sure  of  that,  sir  ? 

Sir  God.  Ay.  ay ;  no,  no :  what's  he  yonder  talking 
with  my  wild  nephew  ?  Pray  Heaven,  he  give  him 
good  counsel. 

Capt.  Who,  he?  He's  a  rare  friend  of  mine,  an 
admirable  fellow,  knight  —  the  finest  fortune-teller  ! 

Sir  God.  0,  'tis  he,  indeed,  that  came  to  my  lady- 
sister,  and  foretold  the  loss  of  my  chain.  I  am  not 
angry  with  him  now,  for  I  see  'twas  my  fortune  to 
lose  it.  —  By  your  leave,  master  fortune-teller,  I  had 
a  glimpse  of  you  at  home,  at  my  sister's  the  widow's. 
There  you  prophesied  of  the  loss  of  a  chain.  Sim- 
ply, though  I  stand  here,  1  was  he  that  lost  it. 

Pye.  Was  it  you,  sir  ? 

Edm.  O'  my  troth,  nuncle,  he's  the  rarest  fellow  — 
has  told  me  my  fortune  so  right ;  I  find  it  so  right  to 
my  nature  ! 

Sir  God.  What  is't  ?     God  send  it  a  good  one. 

Edm.  0,  'tis  a  passing  good  one,  nuncle :  for  he  says 
I  shall  prove  such  an  excellent  gamester  in  my  time, 
that  I  shall  spend  all  faster  than  my  father  got  it. 

Sir  God.  There's  a  fortune,  indeed  ! 

Edm.  Nay,  it  hits  my  humor  so  pat. 

Sir  God.  Ay,  that  will  be  the  end  on't.  Will  the 
curse  of  the  beggar  prevail  so  much,  that  the  son 
shall  consnme  that  foolishly  which  the  father  got 
craftily?  Ay,  ay,  ay  ;  'twill,  'twill,  'twill. 

Pye.  Stay,  stay,  stay !  [PYEBOARD  opens  an  alma- 
nac, and  takes  IDLE  aside. 

Capt.  Turn  over,  George. 

Pye.  June,  July  ;  here,  July :  that's  the  month  :  — 
Sunday  thirteen,  yesterday  fourteen,  to-day  fifteen. 

Capt.  Look  quickly  for  the  fifteenth  day.  If,  with- 
in the  compass  of  these  two  days  there  would  be 
some  boisterous  storm  or  other,  it  would  be  the  best ; 
I'd  defer  him  off  till  then.  Some  tempest,  an  it  be  thy 
will. 

Pye.  Here's  the  fifteenth  day.  [Reads.]  Hot  and 
fair. 

Capt.  Puh  !  wonld  it  had  been  hot  and  foul. 

Pye.  The  sixteenth  day  ;  that's  to-morrow.  The 
morning,  for  the  most  part,  fair  and  pleasant. 

Capt.  No  luck. 

Pye.  But  about  high  noon,  lightning  and  thunder. 


Capt.  Lightning  and  thunder?  Admirable!  best 
of  all !  I'll  conjure  to-morrow  just  at  high  noon, 
George. 

Pye.  Happen  but  true  to-morrow,  almanac,  and  I'll 
give  thee  leave  to  lie  all  the  year  after. 

Capt.  Sir,  I  must  crave  your  patience,  to  bestow 
this  day  upon  me,  that  I  may  furnish  myself  strongly. 
I  sent  a  spirit  into  Lancashire  t'other  day,  to  fetch 
back  a  knave-drover,  and  I  look  for  his  return  this 
evening.  To-morrow  morning,  my  friend  here  and  I 
will  come  and  breakfast  with  you. 

Sir  God.  0,  you  shall  be  most  welcome. 

Capt.  And  about  noon,  without  fail,  I  purpose  to 
conjure. 

Sir  God.  Midnoon  will  be  a  fit  time  for  you. 

Edm.  Conjuring?  do  you  mean  to  conjure  at  our 
house  to-morrow,  sir  ? 

Capt.  Marry,  do  I,  sir  ;  'tis  my  intent,  young  gen- 
tleman. 

Edm.  By  my  troth,  I'll  love  you  while  I  live,  for't. 

0  rare  !     Nicholas,  we  shall  have  conjuring  to-mor- 
row. 

Nich.  Puh  !  ay ;  I  could  have  told  you  of  that. 

Capt.  La,  he  could  have  told  him  of  that !  Fool, 
coxcomb,  could  you  ?  [Aside.] 

Edm.  Do  you  hear  me,  sir  ?  I  desire  more  acquaint- 
ance of  you.  You  shall  earn  some  money  of  me,  now 

1  know  you  can  conjure  ;  but  can  you  fetch  any  that 
is  lost  ? 

Capt.  Oh,  anything  that's  lost. 

Edm.  Why,  look  you,  sir  ;  I  tell't  you  as  a  friend 
and  a  conjurer:  I  should  marry  a  'poth»cary's  diugh- 
ter,  and  'twas  told  me  she  lost  her  maidenhead  at 
Stony-Stratford.  Now  if  you'll  do  but  so  much  as 
conjure  for't,  and  make  all  whole  again 

Capt.  That  I  will,  sir. 

Edm.  By  my  troth,  I  thank  you,  la. 

Copt.  A  little  merry  with  your  sister's  son,  sir. 

Sir  God.  Oh,  a  simple  young  man,  very  simple. 
Come,  captain  ;  and  you,  sir  :  we'll  e'en  part  with  a 
gallon  of  wine  till  to-morrow  breakfast. 

Capt.  and  Pye.  Troth,  agreed,  sir. 

Nich.  Kinsman,  scholar! 

Pye.  Why,  now  thou  art  a  good  knave,  worth  a 
hundred  Brownists. 

Nich.  Am  I,  indeed  ?  la,  I  thank  you  heartily,  la ! 

[Exeunt. 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I.  —  An  Apartment  in  the  Widow's  House. 
Enter  MARY  and  Sir  JOHN  PEHNYDUE. 

Sir  John.  But  I  hope  you  will  not  serve  a  knight 
so,  gentlewoman,  will  you  ?  to  cashier  him,  and  cast 
him  off  at  your  pleasure  !  What,  do  you  think  I  was 
dubbed  for  nothing  ?  No,  by  my  faith,  lady:s  daugh- 
ter  

Mary.  Pray,  Sir  John  Pennydub,  let  it  be  deferred 
a  while  ;  I  have  as  much  heart  to  marry  as  you  can 
have  ;  but,  as  the  fortune-teller  told  me 

Sir  John.  Pox  o'  th'  fortune-teller  !  Would  Der- 
rick1 had  been  his  fortune  seven  year  ago  —  to  cross 
my  love  thus  !  Did  he  know  what  case  I  was  in  ?  — 

I  Derrick  was  the  name  of  the  common  hangman  at  this 
period. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  II. 


135 


Why,  this  is  able  to  make  a  man  drown  himself  in 
his  father's  fish-pond. 

Mary.  And  then  he  told  me,  moreover,  Sir  John, 
that  the  breach  of  it  kept  my  father  in  purgatory. 

Sir  John.  In  purgatory  ?  Why,  let  him  purge  out 
his  heart  there  ;  what  have  we  to  do  with  that?  — 
there's  physicians  enow  there  to  cast  his  water  -,1  is 
that  any  matter  to  us  now?  can  he  hinder  our  love  ? 
Why,  let  him  be  hanged,  now  he's  dead.  Well,  have 
I  rid  post  day  and  night,  to  bring  you  merry  news  of 
my  father's  death,  and  now 

Mary.  Thy  father's  death?  Is  the  old  farmer 
dead  ? 

Sir  John.  As  dead  as  his  barn-door,  Moll. 

Mary.  And  you'll  keep  your  word  with  me  now, 
Sir  John,  that  I  shall  have  my  coach  and  my  coach- 
man  ? 

Sir  John.  Ay,  i'faith. 

Mary.  And  two  white  horses  with  black  feathers 
to  draw  it  ? 

Sir  John.  Two. 

Mary.  A  guarded  lackey2  to  run  before  it,  and  pied 
liveries  to  come  trashing3  after't  ? 

Sir  John.  Thou  shall,  Moll. 

Mary.  And  to  let  me  have  money  in  my  purse  to  go 
whither  I  will  ( 

Sir  John.  All  this. 

Mary.  Then  come  ;  whatsoe'er  comes  on't,  we'll 
be  made  sure  together  before  the  maids  o'th' kitchen. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.  —  A  Room  in  the  Widow's  House,  with  a 
door  at  the  side,  leading  to  another  Apartment. 

Enter  Widow,  FRANCES,  and  FHAILTT. 

Wid.  How  now?  where's  my  brother  Sir  Godfrey? 
Went  he  forth  this  morning  ? 

Frail.  O  no,  madam  ;  he's  above  at  breakfast,  with 
Sir  Reverence,  a  conjurer. 

Wid.  A  conjurer  ?  what  manner  of  fellow  is  he  ? 

Frail.  Oh,  a  wondrous  rare  fellow,  mistress  ;  very 
strongly  made  upward,  for  he  goes  in  a  buff  jerkin. 
He  says  he  will  fetch  Sir  Godfrey's  chain  again,  if  it 
hang  between  heaven  and  earth. 

Wid.  What !  he  will  not  ?  Then  he's  an  excellent 
fellow,  I  warrant.  How  happy  were  that  woman,  to 
be  blest  with  such  a  husband  !  A  cunning  man  !  how 
does  he  look,  Frailty?  Very  swartly,  I  warrant  — 
with  black  beard,  scorched  cheeks,  and  smoky  eye- 
brows. 

Frail.  Foh  !  he's  neither  smoke-dried,  nor  scorched, 
nor  black,  nor  nothing,  i  tell  you,  madam,  he  looks 
as  fair  to  see  to  as  one  of  us.  I  do  not  think  but,  if  you 
saw  him  once,  you'd  take  him  to  be  a  Christian. 

Frances.  So  fair,  and  yet  so  cunning  ?  That's  to 
be  wondered  at,  mother. 

Enter  Sir  OLIVER  MUCKHILL  and  Sir  ANDREW  TIP- 
STAFF. 

Sir  Oli.  Bless  you.  sweet  lady. 

Sir  And.  And  you,  fair  mistress.      [E-s.it  FRAILTY. 

1  Medical  divination  from  the  inspection  of  urine. 

2  A  "  guarded  lackey"  was  one  whose  liveries  were  faced 
or  guarded. 

3  "  Trashing"  really  means  trailing,  in  this  connexion.    It 
is  a  term  derived  from  the  mode  of  breaking  dogs  who  were 
too  eager  in  the  chase,  by  a  long  rope,  which  trashed  or 
trailed  along  the  ground,  and  impeded  his  movements. 


Wid.  Coades,  what  do  you  mean,  gentlemen  ?  Fie, 
did  I  not  give  you  your  answers  ? 

Sir  Oli.  Sweet  lady  ! 

Wid.  Well,  I  will  not  stick  with  you  for  a  kiss : 
Daughter,  kiss  the  gentleman  for  once. 

Frances.  Yes,  forsooth. 

Sir  And.  I'm  proud  of  such  a  favor. 

Wid.  Truly,  la  !  Sir  Oliver,  you  are  much  to  blame 
to  come  again  when  you  know  my  mind  so  well  de- 
livered—  as  a  widow  could  deliver  a  thing. 

Sir  Oli.  But  I  expect  a  further  comfort,  lady. 

Wid.  Why  la  you  now !  did  I  not  desire  you  to  put 
off  your  suit  quite  and  clean  when  you  came  to  me 
again  ?  How  say  you  ?  Did  I  not  ? 

Sir  Oli.  But  the  sincere  love  which  my  heart  bears 
to  you 

Wid.  Go  to,  I'll  cut  you  oft.  And,  Sir  Oliver,  to 
put  you  in  comfort,  afar  off,  my  fortune  is  read  me  : 
I  must  marry  again. 

Sir  Oli.  0  blest  fortune  ! 

Wid.  But  not  as  long  as  I  can  choose ;  nay,  I'll 
hold  out  well. 

Sir  Oli.  Yet  are  my  hopes  now  fairer. 

Enter  FRAILTY. 

Frail.  O,  madam,  madam  ! 

Wid.  How  now  ?  what's  the  haste  ? 

[FRAILTY  whispers  her. 

Sir  And.  I'faith,  Mistress  Frances,  I'll  maintain 
you  gallantly.  I'll  bring  you  to  court ;  wean  you 
among  the  fair  society  of  ladies,  poor  kinswomen  of 
mine,  in  cloth  of  silver  ;  besides,  you  shall  have  your 
monkey,  your  parrot,  your  musk-cat,  and  your 

Frances.  It  will  do  very  well. 

Wid.  What,  does  he  mean  to  conjure  here,  then? 
How  shall  I  do  to  be  rid  of  these  knights  ?  —  Please 
you,  gentlemen,  to  walk  a  while  i'th'  garden,  to  gath- 
er a  pink  or  a  gilliflower  ? 

Both.  With  all  our  hearts,  lady,  and  'count  us  fa- 
vored. [Exeunt  Sir  ANDREW,  Sir  OLIVER,  and 
FRAILTY  ;  the  Widow  and  FRANCES 
go  into  the  adjoining  room. 

Sir  God.  [within].  Step  in,  Nicholas ;  look,  is  the 
coast  clear  ? 

Nich.  [within].  Oh,  as  clear  as  a  cat's  eye,  sir  ? 

Sir  God.  Then  enter,  captain  conjurer. 

Enter  Sir  GODFREY,  Captain  IDLE,  PYEBOARD,  ED- 
MONO,  and  NICHOLAS. 

Now,  how  like  you  your  room,  sir  ? 

Capt.  O,  wonderful  convenient. 

Edm.  I  can  tell  you,  captain,  simply  though  it  liev 
here,  'tis  the  fairest  room  in  my  mother's  house  ;  as 
dainty  a  room  to  conjure  in,  methinks  —  why,  you 
may  bid,  I  can  not  tell  how  many  devils,  welcome 
in't ;  my  father  has  had  twenty  in't  at  once. 

Pye.  What,  devils  ? 

Edm.  Devils?  no,  deputies,  and  the  wealthiest  men 
he  could  get. 

Sir  God.  Nay,  put  by  your  chats  now  ;  fall  to  your 
business  roundly.  The  fescue  of  the  dial  is  upon  the 
Christ-cross  of  noon.4  But  oh,  hear  me,  captain  ;  a 
qualm  comes  o'er  my  stomach. 

Capt.  Why,  what's  the  matter,  sir? 

Sir  God.  0,  how  if  the  devil  should  prove  a  knave, 
and  tear  the  hangings  ? 

<  "  Fescue,"  the  pointer. 


136     THE  PURITAN;  OR,  THE  WIDOW  OF  WATLING  STREET. 

Capt.  Foh  !  I  warrant  you,  Sir  Godfrey. 

Edm.  Ay,  nuncle,  or  spit  fire  upo'  the  ceiling? 

Sir  God.  Very  true,  too ;  for  'tis  but  thin  plastered, 
and  'twill  quickly  take  hold  o'  the  laths  ;  and  if  he 
chance  to  spit  downward  too,  he  will  burn  all  the 
boards. 

Capt.  My  life  for  yours,  Sir  Godfrey. 

Sir  God.  My  sister  is  very  curious  and  dainty  of  this 
room,  I  can  tell  you  ;  and,  therefore,  if  he  must  needs 
spit,  I  pray  desire  him  to  spit  i'th'  chimney. 

Pye.  Why,  assure  you,  Sir  Godfrey,  he  shall  not  be 
brought  up  with  so  little  manners,  to  spit  and  spawl 
o'  the  floor. 

Sir  God.  Why,  I  thank  you  ;  good  captain,  pray, 
have  a  care.  [IDLE  and  PYEBOAHD  retire  to  the  upper 
end  of  the  room.]  Ay,  fall  to  your  circle  ;  we'll  not 
trouble  you,  I  warrant  you.  Come,  we'll  into  the 
next  room  ;  and,  because  we'll  be  sure  to  keep  him 
out  there,  we'll  bar  up  the  door  with  some  of  the  god- 
ly's  zealous  works. 

Edm.  That  will  be  a  fine  device,  nuncle  ;  and,  be- 
cause the  ground  shall  be  as  holy  as  the  door,  I'll 
tear  two  or  three  rosaries  in  pieces,  and  strew  the 
pieces  about  the  chamber.  Oh,  the  devil  already  ! 

[Lightning  and  thunder. 

Pye.  'Sfoot !  captain,  speak  somewhat,  for  shame : 
it  lightens  and  thunders  before  thou  wilt  begin.  Why, 
when  — 

Capt.  Pray,  peace,  George  ;  thou'lt  make  me  laugh 
anon,  and  spoil  all.  [Lightning  and  thunder. 

Pye.  Oh,  now  it  begins  again ;  now,  now,  now,  cap- 
tain ! 

Capt.  Rhumbos-ragdayon,  pur,  pur,  colucundrion, 
hoisplois  ! 

Sir  God.  [at  the  door].  0,  admirable  conjurer  !  has 
fetched  thunder  already. 

Pye.  Hark,  hark  !    Again,  captain  ! 

Capt .  Benjamino,  gaspois-kay-gofgothoteron-umbrois  ! 

Sir  God.  [at  the  door] .  Oh,  I  would  the  devil  would 
come  away  quickly ;  he  has  no  conscience,  to  put  a 
man  to  such  pain  ! 

Pye.  Again. 

Capt.  Flowste  kak  opumpos-dragone-leloomenos-hodge 
podge  ! 

Pye.  Well  said,  captain. 

Sir  God.  [at  the  door] .  So  long  a  coming  ?  O,  would 
I  had  ne'er  begun  it,  now,  for  I  fear  me  these  roaring 
tempests  will  destroy  all  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  and 
tread  upon  my  corn  [thunder]  — oh  —  i'th'  country ! 

Capt.  Gog  de  gog,  hobgoblin  huncks  hounslow  hock- 
ley  te  coom  park  ! 

Wid.  [at  the  door] .  0,  brother,  brother,  what  a  tem- 
pest i'th'  garden  !  Sure  there's  some  conjuration 
abroad. 

Sir  God.  [at  the  door}.  'Tis  at  home,  sister. 

Pye.  By-and-by,  I'll  step  in,  captain. 

Capt.  Nunck-nunck,  rip-gascoines,  ips,  drip-dropite  ! 

Sir  God.  [at  the  door] .  He  drips  and  drops,  poor 
man  ;  alas  !  alas  ! 

Pye.  Now,  I  come  ! 

Capt.  0,  sulphur e  sootface  ! 

Pye.  Arch-conjurer,  what  wouldst  thou  with  me  ? 

Sir  God.  [at  the  door].  Oh,  the  devil,  sister,  i'th' 
dining-chamber !  Sing,  sister ;  I  warrant  you  that 
wiL  keep  him  out :  quickly,  quickly,  quickly ! 

Pye.  So,  so,  so :  I'll  release  thee.  Enough,  cap- 
tain, enough.  Allow  us  some  time  to  laugh  a  little  ; 


they're  shuddering  and  shaking  by  this  time,  as  if  an 
earthquake  were  in  their  kidneys. 

Capt.  Sirrah  George,  how  was't,  how  was't  ?  did  I 
do't  well  enough  ? 

Pye.  Woult  believe  me,  captain  ?  better  than  any 
conjurer;  for  here  was  no  harm  in  this,  and  yet  their 
horrible  expectations  satisfied  well.  You  were  much 
beholden  to  thunder  and  lightning  at  this  time  ;  it 
graced  you  well,  I  can  tell  you. 

Capt.  I  must  needs  say  so,  George.  Sirrah,  if  we 
could  have  conveyed  hither  cleanly  a  cracker,  or  a. 
fire-wheel,  it  had  been  admirable. 

Pye.  Blurt,  blurt !  There's  nothing  remains  to  put 
thee  to  pain  now,  captain. 

Capt.  Pain  ?  I  protest,  George,  my  heels  are  sorer 
than  a  Whitsun  morris-dancer's. 

Pye.  All's  past  now ;  —  only  to  reveal  that  the 
chain's  i'th'  garden,  where,  thou  know'st,  it  has  lain 
these  two  days. 

Capt.  But  I  fear  that  fox  Nicholas  has  revealed  it 
already. 

Pye.  Fear  not,  captain  ;  you  must  put  it  to  th'  ven- 
ture now.  Nay,  'tis  time  :  call  upon  'em,  take  pity 
on  'em ;  for  I  believe  some  of  'em  are  in  a  pitiful  case 
by  this  time. 

Capt.  Sir  Godfrey  !  Nicholas  —  kinsman  !  'Sfoot ! 
they're  fast  at  it  still,  George.  Sir  Godfrey  ! 

Sir  God.  [at  the  door] .  Oh  !  is  that  the  devil's  voice  ? 
how  comes  he  to  know  my  name  ? 

Capt.  Fear  not,  Sir  Godfrey ;  all's  quieted. 

Enter  Sir  GODFREY,  the  Widow,  FRANCES,  and  NICH- 
OLAS. 

Sir  God.  What !  is  he  laid  ? 

Capt.  Laid :  and  has  newly  dropped  your  chain  i' 
th'  garden. 

Sir  God.  I'th'  garden  ?  in  our  garden  ? 

Capt.  In  your  garden. 

Sir  God.  0,  sweet  conjurer  !  whereabouts  there  ? 

Capt.  Look  well  about  a  bank  of  rosemary. 

Sir  God.  Sister,  the  rosemary-bank  !  Come,  come : 
there's  my  chain,  he  says. 

Wid.  Oh,  happiness  !  run,  run  !     [Exeunt  Widow, 
Sir  GODFREY:,  FRANCES,  and  NICHOLAS. 

Edm.  [at  the  door] .  Captain  conjurer  ! 

Capt.  Who  ?  Master  Edmond  ? 

Edm.  Ay,  Master  Edmond.  May  I  come  in  safely 
without  danger,  think  you  ? 

Capt.  Puh  !  long  ago  ;  it  is  all  as  'twas  at  first : 
Fear  nothing ;  pray,  come  near.    How  now,  man  ? 

Edm.  Oh  !  this  room's  mightily  hot,  i'faith.  'Slid  ! 
my  shirt  sticks  to  my  belly  already.  What  a  steam 
the  rogue  has  left  behind  him  !  Foh  !  this  room  must 
be  aired,  gentlemen  ;  it  smells  horribly  of  brimstone. 
Let's  open  the  windows. 

Pye.  I'faith,  Master  Edmond,  'tis  but  your  conceit. 

Edm.  I  would  you  could  make  me  believe  that, 
i'faith.  Why,  do  you  think  I  can  not  smell  his  savor 
from  another  ?  Yet  I  take  it  kindly  from  you,  be- 
cause you  would  not  put  me  in  a  fear,  i'faith.  O'  my 
troth,  I  shall  love  you  for  this  the  longest  day  of  my 
life. 

Capt.  Puh  !  'tis  nothing,  sir  :  love  me  when  you  see 
more. 

Edm.  Mass,  now  I  remember :  I'll  look  whether  ha 
has  singed  the  hangings  or  no. 

Pye.  Captain,  to  entertain  a  little  sport  till  they 


ACT  IV.  — SCENE  III. 


137 


come,  make  him  believe  you'll  charm  him  invisible 
He's  apt  to  admire  anything,  you  see.  Let  me  alone 
to  give  force  to't. 

Capt.  Go,  retire  to  yonder  end,  then. 
Edm.  I  protest  you  are  a  rare  fellow,  are  you  not 
Capt.  0,  Master  Edmond,  you  know  but  the  leas 
part  of  me  yet.    Why  now,  at  this  instant,  I  couk 
flourish  my  wand  thrice  o'er  your  head,  and  charm 
you  invisible. 

Edm.  What !  you  could  not  ?  Make  me  walk  in 
visible,  man  ?  I  should  laugh  at  that,  i'faith  ;  troth 
I'll  requite  your  kindness,  an  you'll  do't,  good  cap- 
tain  conjurer. 

Capt.  Nay,  I  should  hardly  deny  you  such  a  small 
kindness,  Master  Edmond  Plus.  Why,  look  you,  sir 
'tis  no  more  but  this,  and  thus  again  —  and  now  you 
are  invisible. 

Edm.  Am  I,  i'faith  ?  who  would  think  it  ? 

Capt.  You  see  the  fortune-teller  yonder,  at  farther 

end  o'th'  chamber?    Go  toward  him,  do  what  you 

will  with  him  —  he  shall  ne'er  find  you. 

Edm.  Say  you  so,  I'll  try  that,  i'faith. — 

[Jostles  him. 

Pye.  How  now,  captain  ?  who's  that  jostled  me  ? 
Capt.  Jostled  you  ?  I  saw  nobody. 
Edm.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  —  say  'twas  a  spirit. 

[Aside  to  IDLE. 

Capt.  Shall  I?  —  May  be  some  spirits  that  haunt 
the  circle.  [EDMOND  pulls  PYEBOARD'S  nose. 

Pye.  0,  my  nose,  again  !  Pray  conjure  them,  cap- 
tain. 

Edm.  Troth,  this  is  excellent.  I  may  do  any 
knavery  now  and  never  be  seen.  —  And  now  I  remem- 
ber me,  Sir  Godfrey,  my  uncle  abused  me  t'other  day, 
and  told  tales  of  me  to  my  mother.  —  Troth,  now  I'm 
invisible,  I'll  hit  him  a  sound  wherrit  o'th'  ear,  when 
he  comes  out  o'th'  garden.  —  I  maybe  revenged  on 
him  now  finely. 

Enter  Sir  GODFREY,  Widow,  and  FRANCES. 

Sir  God.  I  have  my  chain  again  ;  my  chain's  found 
again.  O,  sweet  captain !  O,  admirable  conjurer ! 
[EDMOND  strikes  him.]  O,  what  mean  you  by  that, 
nephew  ? 

Edm.  Nephew?  I  hope  you  do  not  know  me, 
uncle? 

Wid.  Why  did  you  strike  your  uncle,  son  ? 

Edm.  Why,  captain,  am  I  not  invisible  ? 

Capt.  A  good  jest,  George  !    Not  now  you  are  not, 

sir! 
Why,  did  not  you  see  me  when  I  did  uncharm  you  ? 

Edm.  Not  I,  by  my  troth,  captain.  Then  pray  you 
pardon  me,  uncle.  I  thought  I  had  been  invisible 
when  I  struck  you. 

Sir  God.  So,  you  would  do't  ?    Go,  —  you're  a  fool- 
ish boy, 

And  were  I  not  o'ercome  with  greater  joy, 
I'd  make  you  taste  correction. 

Edm.  Correction  !  puh.  —  No,  neither  you  nor  my 
mother  [now]  shall  think  to  whip  me  as  you  have 
done. 

Sir  God.  Captain,  my  joy  is  such,  I  know  not  how 
to  thank  you ;  let  me  embrace  you.  O,  my  sweet 
chain  !  gladness  e'en  makes  me  giddy.  Rare  man  ! 
'twas  just  i'th'  rosemary  bank,  as  if  one  should  have 
laid  it  there.  0,  cunning,  cunning  ! 

Wid.  Well,  seeing  my  fortune  tells  me  I  must  mar- 


ry, let  me  marry  a  man  of  wit,  a  man  of  parts 
Here's  a  worthy  captain,  and  'tis  a  fine  title  truly,  la, 
to  be  a  captain's  wife.  A  captain's  wife  !  it  goes  very 
finely ;  beside,  all  the  world  knows  that  a  worthy 
captain  is  a  fit  companion  to  any  lord  ;  then  why  not 
a  sweet  bedfellow  for  any  lady  ?  —  I'll  have  it  so.  — 

Enter  FRAILTY. 

Frail.  0,  mistress — gentlemen  —  there's  the  bravest 
sight  coming  along  this  way. 

Wid.  What  brave  sight  ? 

F rail.  O,  one  going  to  burying,  and  another  going 
to  hanging. 

Wid.  A  rueful  sight ! 

Pye.  'Sfoot,  captain,  I'll  pawn  my  life  the  corporal's 
coffined,  and  old  Skirmish  the  soldier  going  to  exe- 
cution ;  and  'tis  now  about  the  time  of  his  waking. 
Hold  out  a  little  longer,  sleepy  potion,  and  we  shall 
have  excellent  admiration ;  for  I'll  take  upon  me  the 
cure  of  him.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  The  Street  before  the  Widow's  Howe. 

Enter  from  the  House,  Sir  GODFREY,  the  Widow,  IDLE, 
PYEBOARD,  EDMOND,  FRAILTY,  and  NICHOLAS.  A 
Coffin,  with  Corporal  OATH  in  it,  brought  in.  Then 
enter  SKIRMISH,  bound  and  led  by  Officers,  the  Sher- 
iff, SfC.,  attending. 

Frail.  O,  here  they  come,  here  they  come  .' 
Pye.  Now  must  I  close  secretly  with  the  soldier, 
prevent  his  impatience,  or  else  all's  discovered. 

Wid.   O,  lamentable    seeing,   these    were    those 
brothers,  that  fought  and  bled  before  our  door. 
Sir  God.  What !  they  were  not,  sister  ? 
Skir.  George,  look  to't,  I'll  'peach  at  Tyburn  else. 
Pye.  Mum.  —  Gentles  all,  vouchsafe  me  audience, 
And  you  especially,  good  master  sheriff: 
Yon  man  is  bound  to  execution,  because 
He  wounded  this  that  now  lies  coffined  [here]. 

Sher.  True,  true  ;  he  shall  have  the  law,  —  and  I 
enow  the  law. 

Pye.  But,  under  favor,  master  sheriff:  if  this  man 
lad  been  cured  and  safe  again,  he  should  have  been 
released,  then  ? 

Sher.  Why,  make  you  question  of  that,  sir  ? 
Pye.  Then  I  release  him  freely,  and  will  take  upon 
me  the  death  that  he  should  die,  if,  within  a  little 
season,  I  do  not  cure  him  to  his  proper  health  again. 

Sher.  How,  sir  ?  recover  a  dead  man  ? 
That  were  most  strange  of  all ! 

[FRANCES  approaches  PYEBOAHD. 
Frances.  Sweet  sir,  Hove  you  dearly,  and  could  wish 
tfy  best  part  yours  !  —  0  do  not  undertake 
Such  an  impossible  venture  ! 
Pye.  Love  you  me  ?  then  for  your  sweet  sake  I'll 

do't: 

et  me  entreat  the  corpse  be  set  down  [here] . 
Sher.  Bearers,  set  down  the  coffin. —  This  is  won- 
derful, and  worthy  Stow's  Chronicle. 
Pye.  I  pray  bestow  the  freedom  of  the  air  upon  our 
wholesome  art.  —  Mass,  his  cheeks  begin  to  receive 
;atural  warmth :  nay,  good  corporal,  wake  betime, 
r  I  shall  have  a  longer  sleep  than  you.  —  'Sfoot,  if 
ie  should  prove  dead  indeed  now,  he  were  fully  re- 
enged  upon  me  for  making  a  property  of  him  ;  yet  I 
ad  rather  run  upon  the  ropes,  than  have  the  rope 


138     THE  PURITAN ;  OR,  THE  WIDOW  OF  WATLING  STREET. 


like  a  tetter  run  upon  me.  O,  he  stirs  ! — he  stirs 
again  !  — !  look,  gentlemen,  he  recovers  !  he  starts  .' 
he  rises  ! 

Sher.  Oh,  oh,  defend  us  !  —  Out,  alas  ! 

Pye.  Nay,  pray  be  still  ;  you'll  make  him  more 
giddy  else.  —  He  knows  nobody  yet. 

Corp.  Zounds !  where  am  I  ?  covered  with  snow  ? 
I  marvel  ? 

Pye.  Nay,  1  knew  he  would  swear  the  first  thing  he 
did,  as  soon  as  he  came  to  life  again. 

Corp.  'Sfoot,  hostess  —  some  hot  porridge.  —  Oh ! 
oh!  lay  on  a  dozen  of  fagots  in  the  moon  parlor, 
there. 

Pye.  Lady,  you  must  needs  take  a  little  pity  of  him, 
i'faith,  and  send  him  into  your  kitchen  fire. 

Wid.  0,  with  all  my  heart,  sir ;  Nicholas  and  Frail- 
ty, help  to  bear  him  in. 

Nich.  Bear  him  in,  quotha !  pray  call  out  the  maids. 
I  shall  ne'er  have  the  heart  to  do't,  indeed,  la. 

Frail.  Nor  I  neither.  I  can  not  abide  to  handle  a 
ghost,  of  all  men. 

Corp.  'Sblood,  let  me  see,  where  was  I  drunk  last 
night  ?  hah 

Wid.  0,  shall  I  bid  you  once  again,  take  him  away  ? 

Frail.  Why,  we're  as  fearful  as  you,  1  warrant  you 
—  oh 

Wid.  Away,  villains,  bid  the  maids  make  him  a 
caudle  presently  to  settle  his  brain — or  a  posset  of 
sackj  quickly,  quickly. 

[Exeunt  NICHOLAS  and  FRAILTY, 
pushing  in  the  Corporal. 

Sher.  Sir,  whatsoe'er  you  are,  I  do  more  than  ad- 
mire you. 

Wid.  0,  ay,  if  you  knew  all,  master  sheriff,  as  you 
shall  do,  you  would  say  then,  that  here  were  two  of 
the  rarest  men  within  the  walls  of  Christendom. 

Sher.  Two  of  'em  ?  0  wonderful !  Officers,  I  dis- 
charge you ;  set  him  free  ;  all's  in  tune. 

Sir  God.  Ay,  and  a  banquet  ready  by  this  time, 
master  sheriff,  to  which  I  most  cheerfully  invite  you, 
and  your  late  prisoner  there.  See  you  this  goodly 
chain,  sir?  Mum!  no  more  words;  'twas  lost  and 
is  found  again.  Come,  my  inestimable  bullies,  we'll 
talk  of  your  noble  acts  in  sparkling  charnico,1  and, 
instead  of  a  jester,  we'll  have  the  ghost  i'th'  white 
sheet  sit  at  upper  end  o'th'  table. 

Sher.  Excellent !  merry  man,  i'faith. 

[Exeunt  all  but  FRANCES. 

Frances.  Well,  seeing  I'm  enjoined  to  love  and 

marry, 

My  foolish  vow  thus  I  cashier  to  air 
Which  first  begot  it.— Now,  love,  play  thy  part ; 
The  scholar  reads  his  lecture  in  my  heart.         [Exit. 


ACT   V. 

SCENE  I.— The  Street  before  the  Widow's  House. 
Enter  EDMOND  and  FRAILTY. 

Edm.  This  is  the  marriage-morning  for  my  mother 
and  my  sister. 

Frail.  0  me,  Master  Edmond  !  we  shall  have  rare 
doings. 

i  Ckanrico—  a  sweet  wine  of  Lisbon. 


Edm.  Nay,  go,  Frailty,  run  to  the  sexton  ;  you 
know  my  mother  will  be  married  at  Saint  Antlings. 
Hie  thee  ;  'tis  past  five ;  bid  them  open  the  church 
door ;  my  sister  is  almost  ready. 

Frail.  What,  already,  Master  Edmond  ? 

Edm.  Nay,  go  ;  hie  thee.  First  run  to  the  sexton, 
and  run  to  the  clerk  ;  and  then  run  to  Master  Pigman, 
the  parson  ;  and  then  run  to  the  milliner :  and  then 
run  home  again. 

Frail.  Here's  run,  run,  run. 

Edm.  But  hark,  Frailty. 

Frail.  What,  more  yet  ? 

Edm.  Have  the  maids  remembered  to  strew  the 
way  to  the  church. 

Frail.  Foh  !  an  hour  ago  :  I  helped  'em  myself. 

Edm.  Away,  away,  away  ;  away  then. 

Frail.  Away,  away,  away  j  away  then. 

[Exit  FRAILTY. 

Edm.  I  shall  have  a  simple  father-in-law,  a  brave 
captain,  able  to  beat  all  our  street,  Captain  Idle.  Now 
my  lady  mother  will  be  fitted  for  a  delicate  name  ; 
my  lady  Idle,  my  lady  Idle  !  the  finest  name  that  can 
be  for  a  woman ;  and  then  the  scholar,  Master  Pye- 
board,  for  my  sister  Frances,  that  will  be,  Mistress 
Frances  Pyeboard ;  Mistress  Frances  Pyeboard ! 
They'll  keep  a  good  table,  I  warrant  you.  Now  all 
the  knights'  noses  are  put  out  of  joint ;  they  may  go 
to  a  bone-setter's  now. 

Enter  Captain  IDLE,  PYEBOARD,  and  Attendants. 

Hark,  hark !  0,  who  comes  here  with  two  torches  be- 
fore them  ?  my  sweet  captain  and  my  fine  scholar  ? 
0,  how  bravely  they  are  shot  up  in  one  night !  They 
look  like  fine  Britons  now  methinks.  Here's  a  gallant 
change,  i'faith.  'Slid,  they  have  hired  men,  and  all, 
by  the  clock. 

Capt.  Master  Edmond ;  kind,  honest,  dainty  Mas- 
ter Edmond. 

Edm.  Foh,  sweet  captain  father-in-law  !  a  rare  per- 
fume,  i'faith. 

Pye.  What,  are  the  brides  stirring  ?  May  we  steal 
upon  'em,  thinkst  thou,  Master  Edmond? 

Edm.  Foh !  they're  e'en  upon  readiness,  I  can  as- 
sure you ;  for  they  were  at  their  torch  e'en  now ;  by 
the  same  token  I  tumbled  down  the  stairs. 

Pye.  Alas,  poor  Master  Edmond. 

Enter  Musicians. 

Capt.  O,  the  musicians !  I  pry'thee,  Master  Ed- 
mond, call  'em  in,  and  liquor  'em  a  little. 

Edm.  That  I  will,  sweet  captain  father-in-law,  and 
make  each  of  them  as  drunk  as  a  common  fidler. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.— The  same. 

Enter  MART  in  a  balcony  abate.    To  her  below  Sir 
JOHN  PENNYDUB. 

Sir  John.  Whew  !  Mistress  Moll,  Mistress  Moll. 

Mary.  Who's  there  ? 

Sir  John.  'Tis  I. 

Mary.  Who  ?  Sir  John  Pennydub  ?  0,  you're  an 
early  cock,  i'faith.  Who  would  have  thought  you  to 
be  so  rare  a  stirrer  ? 

Sir  John.  Pry'thee,  Moll,  let  me  come  up. 

Mary.  No,  by  my  faith,  Sir  John  ;  I'll  keep  you 


ACT  V.— SCENE  IV. 


139 


down ;  for  you  knights  are  very  dangerous,  if  once 
you  get  above. 

Sir  John.  I'll  not  stay,  i'faith. 

Mary.  I'faith,  you  shall  stay ;  for,  Sir  John,  you 
must  note  the  nature  of  the  climates  :  your  northern 
wench  in  her  own  country  may  well  hold  out  till  she 
be  fifteen  ;  but  if  she  touch  the  south  once,  and  come 
up  to  London,  here  the  chimes  go  presently  after 
twelve. 

Sir  John.  0,  thou'rt  a  mad  wench,  Moll,  but  I 
pr'ythee  make  haste,  for  the  priest  is  gone  before. 

Mary.  Do  you  follow  him ;  I'll  not  be  long  after. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.  —  A  Room  in  Sir  OLIVER  MUCKHILL'S 
House. 

Enter  Sir  OLIVER  MUCKHILL,  Sir  ANDREW  TIPSTAFF, 
and  SKIRMISH. 

Sir  Oli.  0,  monstrous,  unheard-of  forgery  ! 

Sir  And.  Knight,  I  never  heard  of  such  villany,  in 
our  own  country,  in  my  life. 

Sir  Oli.  Why,  'tis  impossible.  Dare  you  maintain 
your  words  ? 

Skir.  Dare  we  ?  Even  to  their  weazen-pipes.  We 
know  all  their  plots  ;  they  can  not  squander  with  us  ; 
they  have  knavishly  abused  us  ;  made  only  properties 
of  us  to  advance  themselves  upon  our  shoulders  :  but 
they  shall  rue  their  abuses.  This  morning  they  are 
to  be  married. 

Sir  Oli.  'Tis  too  true.  Yet  if  the  widow  be  not  too 
much  besotted  on  sleights  and  forgeries,  the  revela- 
tion of  their  villanies  will  make  'em  loathsome.  And, 
to  that  end  —  be  it  in  private  to  you  —  I  sent  late  last 
night  to  an  honorable  personage,  to  whom  I  am  much 
indebted  in  kindness,  as  he  is  to  me,  and  therefore 
presume  upon  the  payment  of  his  tongue,  and  that  he 
will  lay  out  good  words  for  me  ;  and,  to  speak  truth, 
for  such  needful  occasions  only,  I  preserve  him  in 
bond  ;  and  sometimes  he  may  do  me  more  good  here 
in  the  city,  by  a  free  word  of  his  mouth,  than  if  he 
had  paid  one  half  in  hand,  and  took  doomsday  for 
t'other. 

Sir  And.  In  troth,  sir,  without  soothing  be  it  spo- 
ken, [words. 
You  have  published  much  judgment  in  these  few 

Sir  Oli.  For  you  know,  what  such  a  man  utters 
will  be  thought  effectual,  and  to  weighty  purpose  ; 
and  therefore  into  his  mouth  we'll  put  the  approved 
theme  of  their  forgeries. 

Skir.  And  I'll  maintain  it,  knight,  if  she'll  be  true. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Sir  Oli.  How  now,  fellow  ? 

Serv.  May  it  please  you,  sir,  my  lord  is  newly  light- 
ed from  his  coach. 

Sir  Oli.  Is  my  lord  come  already?    His  honor's 
You  see  he  loves  me  well.   Up  before  seven  ?  [early. 
Trust  me,  I  have  found  him  night-capped  at  eleven : 
There's  good  hope  yet ;  come,  I'll  relate  all  to  him. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.—  A  Street;  Church  in  the  Distance. 

Enter  Captain  IDLE,  PYEBOARD,  Sir  GODFREY,  and 
EDMOND  ;  the  Widow  in  bridal  Dress;  Sir  JOHN  PEN- 
NYDUB,  MARY  and  FRANCES,  NICHOLAS,  FRAILTY, 
and  other  Attendants.  To  them  a  Nobleman,  Sir 
OLIVER  MUCKHILL,  and  Sir  ANDREW  TIPSTAFF. 


Noble.  By  your  leave,  lady  ! 

Wid.  My  lord,  your  honor  is  most  chastely  welcome . 
Noble.  Madam,  though  I  came  now  from  court,  I 
come  not  to  flatter  you.  Upon  whom  can  I  justly  cast 
this  blot,  but  upon  your  own  forehead,  that  know  not 
ink  from  milk?  —  such  is  the  blind  besotting  in  the 
state  of  an  unheaded  woman  that's  a  widow.  For  it 
is  the  property  of  all  you  that  are  widows  (a  handful 
excepted)  to  hate  those  that  honestly  and  carefully 
love  you,  to  the  maintenance  of  credit,  state,  and 
posterity ;  and  strongly  to  dote  on  those  that  only 
love  you  to  undo  you.  [They  who]  regard  you  least, 
are  best  regarded  ;  who  hate  you  most,  are  best  be- 
loved. And  if  there  be  but  one  man  amongst  ten  thou- 
sand millions  of  men  that  is  accursed,  disastrous,  and 
evilly.planeted  —  whom  fortune  beats  most,  whom 
God  hates  most,  and  all  societies  esteem  least  —  that 
man  is  sure  to  be  a  husband.  Such  is  the  peevish 
moon  that  rules  your  bloods.  An  impudent  fellow 
best  woos  you,  a  flattering  lip  best  wins  you  ;  or,  in 
mirth,  who  talks  roughliest,  is  most  sweetest.  Nor 
can  you  distinguish  truth  from  forgeries,  mists  from 
simplicity  :  witness  these  two  deceitful  monsters,  that 
you  have  entertained  for  bridegrooms  ! 

Wid.  Deceitful 

Pye.  All  will  out. 

Capt.  'Sfoot !  who  has  blabbed,  George  ?  that  fool- 
ish Nicholas  ! 

Noble.  For,  what  they  have  besotted  your  easy 
blood  withal,  were  nought  but  forgeries  :  the  fortune- 
telling  for  husbands,  and  the  conjuring  for  the  chain  ; 
Sir  Godfrey,  hear  the  falsehood  of  all :  nothing  but 
mere  knavery,  deceit,  and  cozenage. 

Wid.  0,  wonderful !  Indeed,  I  wondered  that  my 
husband,  with  all  his  craft,  could  not  keep  himself 
out  of  purgatory. 

Sir  God.  And  I  more  wondered  that  my  chain  should 
be  gone,  and  my  tailor  had  none  of  it. 

Mary.  And  I  wondered  most  of  all  that  I  should  be 
tied  from  marriage,  having  such  a  mind  to't.  Come, 
Sir  John  Pennydub,  fair  weather  on  our  side :  the 
moon  has  changed  since  yesternight. 

Pye.  The  sting  of  every  evil  is  within  me  ! 

Noble.  And  that  you  may  perceive  I  feign  not  with 
you,  behold  their  fellow-actor  in  these  forgeries,  who, 
full  of  spleen  and  envy  at  their  so  sudden  advance* 
ments,  revealed  all  their  plot  in  anger. 

[SKIRMISH  comes  forward. 

Pye.  Base  soldier,  to  reveal  us  ! 

Wid.  Is't  possible  we  should  be  blinded  so,  and  otrr 
eyes  open  ? 

Noble.  Widow,  will  you  now  believe  that  false, 
which  too  soon  you  believed  true  ? 

Wid.  Oh,  to  my  shame,  I  do. 

Sir  God.  But,  under  favor,  my  lord,  my  chain  was 
truly  lost,  and  strangely  found  again. 

Noble.  Resolve  him  of  that,  soldier. 

Skir.  In  few  words,  knight,  then,  thou  wert  the 
arch-gull  of  all. 

Sir  God.  How,  sir  ? 

Skir.  Nay,  I'll  prove  it :  for  the  chain  was  but  hid 
in  the  rosemary-bank  all  this  while,  and  thou  got'st 
him  out  of  prison  to  conjure  for  it,  who  did  it  admira- 
bly, fustianly :  for  indeed  what  needed  any  other, 
when  he  knew  where  it  was  ? 

Sir  God.  0,  villany  of  villains !  but  how  came  my 
chain  there  ? 


140    THE  PURITAN  ;  OR,  THE  WIDOW  OF  WATLING  STREET. 


Skir.  Where's  Truly  la,  indeed  to1— he  that  will 
not  swear,  but  lie  —  he  that  will  not  steal,  but  rob  — 
pure  Nicholas  Saint  Antlings  ? 

Sir  God.  0,  villain  !  one  of  our  society  — 
Deemed  always  holy,  pure,  religious : 
A  puritan  a  thief !  when  was't  ever  heard  ? 
Sooner  we'll  kill  a  man  than  steal,  thou  know'st. 
Out,  slave  !  I'll  rend  my  lion  from  thy  back 
With  mine  own  hands. 

Nich.  Dear  master  !  oh  ! 

Noble.  Nay,  knight,  dwell  in  patience. 
And  now,  widow,  being;  so  near  the  church,  'twere 
great  pity,  nay,  uncharity,  to  send  you  home  again 
wi  thout  a  husband :  — 

Draw  near,  you  of  true  worship,  state,  and  credit, 
That  should  not  stand  so  far  off  from  a  widow, 
And  suffer  forged  shapes  to  come  between  you  : 
Not  that  in  these  I  blemish  the  true  title 
Of  a  captain,  or  blot  the  fair  margent  of  a  scholar  ; 
For  I  honor  worthy  and  deserving  parts  in  the  one, 
And  cherish  fruitful  virtues  in  the  other. — 
Come,  lady,  and  you,  virgin,  bestow  your  eyes  and 
your  purest  affections  upon  men  of  estimation,  both 
in  court  and  city,  that  have  long  wooed  you,  and 
both  with  their  hearts  and  wealth  sincerely  love  you. 

Sir  God.  Good  sister,  do ;  sweet  little  Franke,  these 

1  The  exclamations  of  Nicholas. 


are  men  of  reputation :  you  shall  be  welcome  at  court 
—  a  great  credit  for  a  citizen,  sweet  sister 

Noble.  Come,  her  silence  does  consent  to't. 

Wid.  I  know  not  with  what  face 

Noble.  Poh  !  poh  !  with  your  own  face  :  they  de- 
sire no  other. 

Wid.  Pardon  me,  worthy  sirs,  I  and  my  daughter, 
Have  wronged  your  loves. 

Sir  OIL  'Tis  easily  pardoned,  lady, 

If  you  vouchsafe  it  now. 

Wid.  With  all  my  soul. 

Frances.  And  I.  with  all  my  heart. 

Mary.  And  I,  Sir  John,  with  soul,  heart,  lights, 
and  all. 

Sir  John.  They  are  all  mine,  Moll. 

Noble.  Now,  lady, 

What  honest  spirit  but  will  applaud  your  choice, 
And  gladly  furnish  you  with  hand  and  voice  ?  — 
A  happy  change,  which  makes  e'en  heaven  rejoice. 
Come,  enter  in  your  joys ;  you  shall  not  want 
For  fathers  now ;  1  doubt  it  not,  believe  me, 
But  that  you  shall  have  hands  enough  to  give  me.* 

[Exeunt. 

2  Some  of  the  copies  read,  "  give  ye,"  but  the  original 
reading,  which  is  here  followed,  seems  more  proper,  and 
accords  with  the  wants  of  the  rhyme.  The  last  section  of 
the  sentence  is  meant  to  suggest  the  applauses  of  the  audi- 
ence. It  is  their  "  hands  enough"  which  the  speaker  antici- 
pates. 


THE  END  OF  THE  PURITAN;  OR,  THE  WIDOW  OF  WATLING  STREET. 


INTRODUCTION 


T8 


THE    YORKSHIRE    TRAGEDY. 


"  A  Yorkshire  Tragedy — not  so  new,  as  lamenta- 
ble and  true  :  written  by  W.  Shakspeare."  This  was 
the  title  of  the  original  edition  of  the  play  which  fol- 
lows, printed  in  1608.  Upon  a  subsequent  titlepage, 
we  have  "  All 's  One,  or,  One  of  the  four  Plaies  in 
one,  called  a  Yorkshire  Tragedy."  We  may  receive 
"  All's  One"  as  the  general  title  of  four  short  plays, 
represented  in  the  same  day,  and  standing  in  the 
place  of  a  regular  tragedy  or  comedy.  Of  the  four 
plays  thus  presented,  it  is  to  be  remarked,  that  "  The 
Yorkshire  Tragedy"  is  the  only  one  which  appears 
to  have  been  published.  This  was  entered,  on  the  2d 
of  May,  1608,  on  the  stationers'  registers,  as  "A 
booke  The  Yorkshire  Tragedy,  written  by  Wylliam 
Shakespere."  The  publisher  of  the  play,  Thomas 
Pavyer,  in  1605,  entered  "  A  Ballad  of  lamentable 
Murther  done  in  Yorkshire,  by  a  Gent,  upon  two  of 
his  owne  Children,  sore  wounding  his  Wyfe  and 
Nurse."  The  fact  upon  which  the  ballad  and  the 
tragedy  are  founded,  is  thus  related  in  Stow's  Chron- 
icle, under  the  year  1604 :  "  Walter  Calverly,  of 


Calverly,  Yorkshire,  esquire,  murdered  two  of  his 
young  children,  stabbed  his  wife  into  the  body,  with 
full  purpose  to  have  murdered  her,  and  instantly  went 
from  his  house  to  have  slain  his  youngest  child,  at 
nurse,  but  was  prevented :  for  which  fact,  at  his  trial 
in  York,  he  stood  mute,  and  was  judged  to  be  pressed 
to  death ;  according  to  which  judgment  he  was  exe- 
cuted, at  the  castle  of  York,  the  5th  of  August." 

"  Concerning  this  play,"  says  Mr.  Malone,  "  I  have 
not  been  able  to  form  any  decided  opinion.  The  ar- 
guments produced  by  Mr.  Steevens,  in  support  of  its 
authenticity,  appear  to  me  to  have  considerable 
weight.  If  its  date  were  not  so  precisely  ascertained, 
little  doubt  would  remain,  in  my  mind  at  least,  upon 
the  subject.  I  find  it,  however,  difficult  to  believe 
that  Shakspeare  could  have  written  Macbeth,  King 
Lear,  and  the  Yorkshire  Tragedy,  at  nearly  the  same 
period."  There  would  be  more  force  in  this  objec- 
tion, could  we  be  sure  when  these  several  plays  of 
Shakspeare  were  written  ;  but  most  of  the  attempts 
to  ascertain  the  dates  of  their  original  production 


142 


INTRODUCTION. 


have  only  tended  to  make  the  facts  more  doubtful. 
Besides,  even  were  they  productions  of  the  same  pe- 
riod, there  would  be  nothing  in  the  inequality  of  the 
pieces  to  urge  against  the  argument,  when  we  make 
the  usual  allowances  for  the  inferiority  of  subject,  and 
the  differing  mental  moods,  or  different  bodily  condi- 
tion of  the  writer.  This  short  play  was  evidently 
written  for  an  emergency — to  grasp  a  popular  occa- 
sion, and  make  use  of  an  event  fresh  in  the  public 
mind,  by  which  it  had  been  greatly  possessed  and 
excited.  Very  unlike  Shakspeare,  in  every  essential 
particular,  it  is  yet  possible  that  he  wrote  it,  in  night- 
gown and  slippers,  scene  by  scene,  to  meet  the  wants 
of  the  actors.  The  demands  of  a  theatre,  the  hurried 
competition  of  rival  houses,  might  readily  prompt 
him  to  this  drudgery,  as  an  aside  from  his  usual 
labors,  at  the  very  moment  that  he  was  most  busy, 
on  his  most  glorious  achievement.  I  attach  but  little 
importance  to  the  scruple  of  Mr.  Malone. 

Dr.  Farmer  has  something  after  the  same  fashion. 
"The  Yorkshire  Tragedy,"  saith  he,  "hath  been 
frequently  called  Shakspeare's  earliest  attempt  in  the 
drama ;  but,  most  certainly,  it  was  not  written  by  our 
poet  at  all.  The  fact  on  which  it  is  built,  was  perpe- 
trated no  sooner  than  1605  —  much  too  late  for  so 
mean  a  performance  from  the  hand  of  Shakspeare." 

"  I  confess,"  says  Mr.  Steevens,  in  a  very  elaborate 
note,  "  I  have  always  regarded  this  little  drama  as  a 
genuine  but  a  hasty  production  of  our  author."  This 
opinion  he  sustains  by  a  series  of  generalities,  which 
most  readers  can  readily  conceive  for  themselves. 

A  writer  in  the  Retrospective  Review,  analyzing 
the  Yorkshire  Tragedy,  says :  "  There  is  no  reason 
why  Shakspeare  should  not  have  written  it,  any  more 
than  why  he  should."  To  this  Mr.  Knight  answers : 
"  The  reason  why  Shakspeare  should  not  have  writ- 
ten it  is,  we  think,  to  be  deduced  from  the  circum- 
stance that  he,  who  had  never  even  written  a  comedy 
in  which  the  scene  is  placed  in  his  own  country  in  his 
own  times,  would  very  unwillingly  have  gone  out  of 
his  way  to  dramatize  a  real  incident  of  horror,  occur- 
ring in  Yorkshire  hi  1604,  which  of  necessity  could 
only  have  been  presented  to  the  senses  of  an  audience, 
as  a  fact  admitting  of  very  little  elevation  by  a  poet- 
ical treatment,  which  might  seize  upon  their  imagin- 
ations." We  really  see  very  little  in  this  argument, 
which  depends  wholly  on  an  assumption.  Certainly, 
there  is  nothing  in  it  to  oppose  to  the  suggestion  of 
that  policy,  on  the  part  of  a  manager,  which  'would 
be  apt  to  consult  the  tastes  of  his  audience,  rather 
than  his  own,  and  which,  whatever  might  be  his  po- 
etical nature,  would  scarcely  suffer  this  to  interfere 
with  his  interests.  Besides,  Mr.  Knight  has  not  ta- 
ken all  the  facts  into  this  connexion.  Though  the 
event  took  place  in  1604,  its  freshness  had  been  pre- 
served by  ballads.  These  were  popular,  and  the  play 
is  probably  neither  more  nor  less  than  the  amplifica- 
tion of  a  ballad. 


The  Retrospective  Review  further  says  :  "  If  he 
[Shakspeare]  had  written  it,  on  the  principle  of  mere- 
ly dramatizing  the  known  fact,  he  would  not  have 
done  it  much  better  than  it  is  here  done  ;  and  there 
were  many  of  his  contemporaries  who  could  have  done 
it  quite  as  well."  — "We  agree,"  says  Mr.  Knight, 
"  with  this  assertion.  If  the  Yorkshire  Tragedy  had 
been  done  better  than  it  is  —  that  is,  if  the  power  of 
the  poet  had  more  prevailed  in  it  —  it  would  not  have 
answered  the  purpose  for  which  it  was  intended  ;  it 
would,  in  truth,  have  been  a  mistake  in  art.  Shak- 
speare would  not  have  committed  this  mistake.  But 
then,  we  doubt  whether  he  would  have  consented  at 
all  to  have  had  a  circle  drawn  around  him  by  the 
antipoetical,  within  which  his  mastery  over  the  spir- 
its of  the  earth  and  of  the  air  was  unavailing." 

All  this  seems  to  us  a  mere  waste  of  speculation. 
To  say  what  Shakspeare  would  have  done,  as  a  poet, 
is  one  thing  ;  but  Mr.  Knight  can  hardly  venture  to 
say  that,  as  a  manager,  largely  interested  in  the  suc- 
cess of  his  theatre,  Shakspeare  would  have  been  so 
tenacious  of  his  particular  tastes  as  to  have  rejected 
a  popular  topic,  solely  because  of  its  poverty  and 
rudeness.  This  is  surely  exceedingly  gratuitous.  If 
Shakspeare  wrote  the  piece  at  all,  upon  which  I  do  not 
propose  to  decide,  this  alone  would  have  been  the 
motive.  It  certainly  would  not  have  been  a  favorite 
study  of  the  artist.  One  fact  is  indisputable,  howev- 
er :  the  play  was  entered  in  the  stationers'  books, 
and  published  by  the  press,  with  the  name  of  William 
Shakspeare,  at  full  length,  in  1608;  not  only  while 
Shakspeare  was  living,  but  while  he  was  connected 
with  the  London  theatres  —  and  the  publication  re- 
mained, and  still  remains,  without  alteration  or  con- 
tradiction. 

This  is  one  of  those  facts  which,  it  appears  to  me, 
no  editor  can  possibly  reject  or  set  aside,  by  a  refer- 
ence to  the  mere  general  inferiority  of  this  piece  to  the 
other  productions  of  the  supposed  author.  The  truth 
is,  the  nature  of  the  subject  rendered  it  unsusceptible 
of  any  high  poetical  embellishments,  if  only  because 
it  was  one  which  did  not,  and  could  not,  commend 
itself  to  the  tastes  and  affections  of  the  poet.  As  a 
domestic  sketch,  though  one  mainly  of  horror,  it  has 
yet  considerable  merit.  The  patience  and  gentleness 
of  the  wife  are  well  contrasted  with  the  insane  brn- 
tality,  and  the  passionate  selfishness,  of  the  husband ; 
and,  in  the  selection  and  distribution  of  his  material 
—  the  choice  of  the  subject  itself  being  kept  from 
sight  —  the  author  shows  equal  good  taste  and  dis- 
cretion. Mr.  Knight  is  of  opinion  that  it  belongs  to 
the  numerous  performances  of  Thomas  Heywood, 
whom  Charles  Lamb  has  called  "  a  sort  of  prose 
Shakspeare ;"  and,  if  not  Shakspeare's,  it  is  most 
likely  to  have  been  Heywood's.  Indeed,  regarding 
the  intrinsic  evidence  only,  we  should  at  once  prefer 
the  claims  of  Heywood  to  those  of  any  of  his  con- 
temporaries. 


A  YORKSHIRE  TRAGEDY. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 

Husband. 

Master  of  a  college. 

A  Knight  fa  Magistrate}. 

Several  Gentlemen. 

OLIVER,    J 

RALPH,     ^servants. 

SAMUEL.  ) 

Other  servants,  officers,  a  little  boy,  fyc. 

Wife. 

Maid- Servant. 


SCENE  I.  —  An  old  House  in  Yorkshire.    Servants' 
Hall. 

Enter  OLIVER  and  RALPH. 

OH.  Sirrah  Ralph,  my  young  mistress  is  in  such  a 
pitiful  passionate  humor  for  the  long  absence  of  her 
love  — 

Ralph.  Why,  can  you  hlame  her?  Why.  apples 
hanging  longer  on  the  tree  than  when  they  are  ripe, 
makes  so  many  fallings  ;  viz.,  mad  wenches,  because 
they  are  not  gathered  in  time,  are  fain  to  drop  of 
themselves,  and  then  'tis  common,  you  know,  for  ev- 
ery man  to  take  them  up. 

OH.  Mass,  thou  say'st  true,  'tis  common  indeed  ! 
But,  sirrah,  is  neither  our  young  master  returned,  nor 
our  fellow  Sam  come  from  London  ? 

Ralph.  Neither  of  either,  as  the  puritan  bawd  says. 
'Slid,  I  hear  Sam.  Sam's  come  ;  here  he  is  ;  tarry  ; 
come,  i'faith  :  now  my  nose  itches  for  news. 

Oli.  And  so  does  mine  elbow. 

Sam.  [within] .  Where  are  you,  there  ?  Boy.  look 
you  walk  my  horse  with  discretion.  I  have  rid  him 
simply  t1  I  warrant  his  skin  sticks  to  his  back  with 
very  heat.  If  he  should  catch  cold  and  get  the  cough 
of  the  lungs,  I  were  well  served,  were  I  not  ? 

Enter  SAMUEL. 

What,  Ralph  and  Oliver  ! 

Both.  Honest  fellow  Sam,  welcome,  i'faith.  What 
tricks  hast  thou  brought  from  London? 

Sam.  You  see  I  am  hanged  after  the  truest  fashion : 
three  hats,  and  two  glasses  bobbing  upon  them ;  two 
rebate  wires3  upon  my  breast,  a  cap-case  by  my  side, 
a  brush  at  my  back,  an  almanac  in  my  pocket,  and 

1  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the  proper  word  here  is  sin- 
fully, and  not  "  simply,"  which  would  seem  purposeless. 

*  '•  Rebato"  was  the  name  of  an  ancient  head-dress.  The 
wires  were  used  to  distend  the  hair  or  lace. — PEKCY. 

10 


three  ballads  in  my  codpiece.3  Now  am  1*  the  true 
picture  of  a  common  servingman. 

Oli.  I'll  swear  thou  art ;  thou  may'st  set  up  when 
thou  wilt :  there's  many  a  one  begins  with  less,  I  can 
tell  thee,  that  proves  a  rich  man  ere  he  dies.  But 
what's  the  news  from  London,  Sam  ? 

Ralph.  Ay,  that's  well  said  ;  what's  the  news  from 
London,  sirrah?  My  young  mistress  keeps  such  a 
puling  for  her  love. 

Sam.  Why,  the  more  fool  she  ;  ay,  the  more  ninny- 
hammer  she. 

Oli.  Why,  Sam, why? 

Sam.  Why,  he  is  married  to  another  long  ago. 

Both.  I'faith?    You  jest. 

Sam.  Why,  did  you  not  know  that  till  now?  why, 
he's  married,  beats  his  wife,  and  has  two  or  three 
children  by  her.  For  you  must  note,  that  a  woman 
bears  the  more  when  she  is  beaten .» 

Ralph.  Ay,  that's  true,  for  she  bears  the  blows. 

Oli.  Sirrah  Sam,  I  would  not  for  two  years'  wages 
my  young  mistress  knew  so  much ;  she'd  run  upon  the 
left  hand  of  her  wit,  and  ne'er  be  her  own  woman 
again. 

Sam.  And  I  think  she  was  blest  in  her  cradle,  that 
he  never  came  in  her  bed.  Why,  he  has  consumed 
all,  pawned  his  lands,  and  made  his  university  brother 
stand  in  wax  for  him  :6  there's  a  fine  phrase  for  a 
scrivener.  Puh !  he  owes  more  than  his  skin  is 
worth. 

Oli.  Is't  possible  ? 

Sam.  Nay,  I'll  tell  you,  moreover,  he  calls  his  wife 
whore,  as  familiarly  as  one  would  call  Moll  and  Doll ; 
and  his  children  bastards,  as  naturally  as  can  be. — 
But  what  have  we  here  ?  I  thought  'twas  something 
pulled  down  my  breeches  ;  I  quite  forgot  my  two  po- 
king-sticks :  these  came  from  London.  Now,  any- 
thing  is  good  here  that  comes  from  London. 

Oli.  Ay,  far-fetched,  you  know,  Sam.  —  But  speak 
in  your  conscience,  i'faith  ;  have  not  we  as  good  po- 
king-sticks  i'the  country  as  need  to  be  put  in  the  fire  ? 

Sam.  The  mind  of  a  thing  is  all ;  the  mind  of  a 
thing  is  all ;  and  as  thou  saidst  even  now,  far-fetched 
are  the  best  things  for  ladies. 

OK.  Ay,  and  for  waiting-gentlewomen  too. 

Sam.  But,  Ralph,  what,  is  our  beer  sour  this  thun- 
der? 

Ralph.  No,  no,  it  holds  countenance  yet. 

3  A  protuberance  in  the  breeches,  sometimes  used  as  a 
pincushion.  An  article  of  the  same  name,  and  used  for  a 
like  purpose,  was  worn  by  women  about  the  breast 

•*  Written  elsewhere,  "  Nay,  I  am,"  &c. 

6  The  old  proverb  has  it,  "A  woman  and  a  walnut-tree 
bear  the  better  for  being  thrashed." 

6  Give  bond — sign  and  seal  for  him. 


144 


A  YORKSHIRE  TRAGEDY. 


Sam.  Why,  then  follow  me  ;  I'll  teach  you  the 
finest  humor  to  be  drunk  in  :  I  learned  it  at  London 
last  week. 

Both.  Tfaith?    Let's  hear  it,  let's  hear  it. 

Sam.  The  bravest  humor !  'twould  do  a  man  good 
to  be  drunk  in  it :  they  call  it  knighting  in  London, 
when  they  drink  upon  their  knees.1 

Both.  Tfaith,  that's  excellent. 

Sam.  Come,  follow  me  ;  I'll  give  you  all  the  degrees 
of  it  in  order.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II.—  A  Room  in  Calverly  HalL 
Enter  Wife. 

Wife.  What  ^U  become  of  us  ?    All  will  away : 
My  husband  never  ceases  in  expense, 
(Both  to  consume  his  credit  and  his  house  ; 
And  'tis  set  down  by  Heaven's  just  decree, 
That  riot's  child  must  needs  be  beggary. 
Are  these  the  virtues  that  his  youth  did  promise  ? 
Dice  and  voluptuous  meetings,  midnight  revels, 
Taking  his  bed  with  surfeits  ;  ill  beseeming 
The  ancient  honor  of  his  house  and  name  ? 
And  this  not  all,  but  that  which  kills  me  most, 
When  he  recounts  his  losses  and  false  fortunes, 
The  weakness  of  his  state  so  much  dejected, 
Not  as  a  man  repentant,  but  half  mad 
His  fortunes  can  not  answer  his  expense, 
He  sits,  and  sullenly  locks  up  his  arms  ; 
Forgetting  heaven,  looks  downward ;  which  makes 
Appear  so  dreadful  that  he  frights  my  heart :      [him 
Walks  heavily,  as  if  his  soul  were  earth ; 
Not  penitent  for  those  his  sins  are  past, 
'But  vexed  his  money  can  not  make  them  last : 
A  fearful  melancholy,  ungodly  sorrow ! 
•O,  yonder  he  comes  ;  now  in  despite  of  ills 
I'll  speak  to  him,  and  I  will  hear  him  speak, 
Ana  do  my  best  to  drive  it  from  his  heart. 

Enter  Husband. 

HIM.  Pox  o'  the  last  throw  !    It  made  five  hundred 

angels 

Vanish  from  my  sight.    I  am  damned,  I'm  damned  ! 
The  angels  have  forsook  me.    Nay,  it  is 
Certainly  true  ;  for  he  that  has  no  coin 
Is  damned  in  this  world  ;  he  is  gone,  he's  gone. 

Wife.  Dear  husband ! 

Hus.  O  !  most  punishment  of  all,  1  have  a  wife. 

Wife.  I  do  entreat  you,  as  you  love  your  soul, 
Tell  me  the  cause  of  this  your  discontent. 

Hus.  A  vengeance  strip  thee  naked  !  thou  art  the 
The  effect,  the  quality,  the  property ;  —  [cause, 
Thou,  thou,  thou !  .  [Exit. 

Wife.  Bad  turned  to  worse  !  A2  beggary  of  the  soul 
As  of  the  body.    And  so  much  unlike 
Himself  at  first,  as  if  some  vexing3  spirit 
Had  got  his  form  upon  him.    He  comes  again  ! 

i  As  the  person  to  be  knighted  always  knelt  to  receive  the 
honor. 

*  The  old  folio  reads,  "  both  beggary  of  the  soul  as  of  the 
body."    Subsequent  editors,  in  amending  the  grammar  of 
.the  sentence,  have  converted  "  at"  into  "  and,"  and  thus,  it 
appears  to  me,  though  rendering  the  line  grammatically  cor- 
rect, have  lessened  something  of  the  euphony  and  force  of 
<he  sentence.    "A  beggary  of  Ihe  soul  as  of  the  body,"  seems 
to  reconcile  both  objects. 

*  Previous  editions  have  it  "  vexed." 


Re-enter  Husband. 

He  says  I  am  the  cause  :  I  never  yet 
Spoke  less  than  words  of  duty  and  of  love. 

Hus.  If  marriage  be  honorable,  then  cuckolds  are 
honorable,  for  they  can  not  be  made  without  mar- 
riage. Fool !  what  meant  1  to  marry  to  get  beggars  ? 
Now  must  my  eldest  son  be  a  knave  or  nothing  ;  he 
can  not  live  upon  the  fool,  for  he  will  have  no  land  to 
maintain  him.  That  mortgage  sits  like  a  snaffle  upon 
mine  inheritance,  and  makes  me  chew  upon  iron. 
My  second  son  must  be  a  promoter,4  and  my  third  a 
thief,  or  an  under-putter  j5  a  slave  pander.  Oh,  beg- 
gary, beggary,  to  what  base  uses  dost  thou  put  a  man  '* 
I  think  the  devil  scorns  to  be  a  bawd  ;  he  bears  him- 
self more  proudly,  has  more  care  of  his  credit. — 
Base,  slavish,  abject,  filthy  poverty  ! 

Wife.  Good  sir,  by  all  our  vows  I  do  beseech  you, 
Show  me  the  true  cause  of  your  discontent. 

Hus.  Money,  money,  money  ;  and  thou  must  sup- 
ply me. 

Wife.  Alas,  I  am  the  least  cause  of  your  discon- 
Yet  what  is  mine,  either  in  rings  or  jewels,       [tent ; 
Use  to  your  own  desire  ;  but  I  beseech  you, 
As  you  're  a  gentleman  by  many  bloods, 
Though  I  myself  be  out  of  your  respect, 
Think  on  the  state  of  these  three  lovely  boys 
You  have  been  father  to. 

Hus.  Puh !  bastards,  bastards,  bastards ;  begot  in 
tricks,  begot  in  tricks. 

Wife.  Heaven  knows  how  these  words  wrong  me  : 

but  I  may 

Endure  these  griefs  among  a  thousand  more. 
O,  call  to  mind  your  lands  already  mortgaged, 
Yourself  wound  into  debts,  your  hopeful  brother, 
At  th'  university,  in  bonds  for  you, 
Like  to  be  seized  upon  ;  and 

Hus.  Have  done,  thou  harlot, 
Whom,  though  for  fashion-sake  I  married, 
I  never  could  abide.    Think'st  thou,  thy  words 
Shall  kill  my  pleasures  ?  Fall  off  to  thy  friends  ; 
Thou  and  thy  bastards  beg  ;  I  will  not  bate 
A  whit  in  humor.    Midnight,  still  I  love  you, 
And  revel  in  your  company  !  Curbed  in  ? 
Shall  it  be  said  in  all  societies, 
That  I  broke  custom  ?  that  I  flagged  in  money  ? 
No,  those  thy  jewels  I  will  play  as  freely 
As  when  my  state  was  fullest. 

Wife.  Be  it  so. 

Hus.  Nay,  I  protest  —  and  take  that  for  an  ear- 
nest,—  [Spurns  her. 
I  will  for  ever  hold  thee  in  contempt, 
And  never  touch  the  sheets  that  cover  thee, 
But  be  divorced  in  bed,  till  thou  consent 
Thy  dowry  shall  be  sold,  to  give  new  life 
Unto  those  pleasures  which  I  most  affect. 

Wife.  Sir,  do  but  turn  a  gentle  eye  upon  me, 
And  what  the  law  shall  give  me  leave  to  do, 
You  shall  command. 

Hus.  Look  it  be  done.    Shall  I  want  dust, 
And,  like  a  slave,  wear  nothing  in  my  pockets 

[Holds  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 
But  my  bare  hands,  to  fill  them  up  with  nails  ? 
O  much  against  my  blood,  let  it  be  done ! 

4  Promoter—  informer. 

6  Or  putour — a  leecher— a  whoremonger. 

8  "  To  what  base  uses  we  may  return,  Horatio  !" — Hamlet. 


SCENE  III. 


145 


I  was  never  made  to  be  a  looker-on, 

A  bawd  to  dice  ;  I'll  shake  the  drabs  myself, 

And  make  them  yield.    I  say,  look  it  be  done. 

Wife.  I  take  my  leave  :  it  shall.  [Exit. 

Hits.  Speedily,  speedily. 

I  hate  the  very  hour  I  chose  a  wife  : 
A  trouble,  trouble  !  Three  children,  like  three  evils, 
Hang  on  me.    Fie,  fie,  fie  !    Strumpet  and  bastards ! 

Enter  three  Gentlemen. 

Strumpet  and  bastards ! 

1  Gent.  Still  do  these  loathsome  thoughts  jar  on 

your  tongue ! 

Yourself  to  stain  the  honor  of  your  wife, 
Nobly  descended !     Those  whom  men  call  mad, 
Endanger  others  ;  but  he's  more  than  mad 
That  wounds  himself;  whose  own  words  do  proclaim 
Scandals  unjust,  to  soil  his  better  name. 
It  is  not  fit ;  I  pray  [you,  sir,]  forsake  it. 

2  Gent.  Good  sir,  let  modesty  reprove  you[r  speech]. 

3  Gent.  Let  honest  kindness  sway  so  much  with 

you. 

Hus.  Good  den  ;  I  thank  you,  sir  ;  and  how  do  you? 
Adieu  !     I  am  glad  to  see  you  !     And  farewell 
Instructions  !  —  admonitions  !       [Exeunt  Gentlemen. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

How  now,  sirrah  ?    What  would  you  ? 

Serv.  Only  to  certify  you,  sir,  that  my  mistress  was 
met  by  the  way,  by  them  who  were  sent  for  her  up  to 
London  by  her  honorable  uncle,  your  worship's  late 
guardian. 

Hus.  So,  then  she  is  gone,  sir  ;  and  so  may  you  be  ; 
But  let  her  look  the  thing  be  done  she  wots  of, 
Or  hell  will  stand  more  pleasant  than  her  home. 

[Exit  Servant. 

Enter  a  Gentleman. 

Gent.  Well  or  ill  met,  I  care  not. 

Hus.  No,  nor  I. 

Gent.  I  am  come  with  confidence  to  chide  you. 

Hus.  Who  ?  me  ? 

Chide  me  ?  Do't  finely,  then  ;  let  it  not  move  me  : 
For  if  thou  chidest  me  angry,  I  shall  strike. 

Gent.  Strike  thine  own  follies,  for  'tis  they  deserve 
To  be  well  beaten.     We  are  now  in  private ; 
There's  none  but  thou  and  I.    Thou  art  fond  and 

peevish ; 

An  unclean  rioter ;  thy  lands  and  credit 
Lie  now  both  sick  of  a  consumption  : 
I  am  sorry  for  thee.     That  man  spends  with  shame, 
That  with  his  riches  doth  consume  his  name ; 
And  such  art  thou. 

Hus.  Peace ! 

Gent.  No,  thou  shall  hear  me  further. 

Thy  father's  and  forefathers'  worthy  honors, 
Which  were  our  country  monuments,  our  grace, 
Follies  in  thee  begin  now  to  deface. 
The  spring-time  of  thy  youth  did  fairly  promise 
Such  a  most  fruitful  summer  to  thy  friends, 
It  scarce  can  enter  into  men's  beliefs 
Such  dearth  should  hang  upon  thee.    We  that  see  it 
Are  sorry  to  believe  it.    In  thy  change, 
This  voice  into  all  places  will  be  hurled  — 
Thou  and  the  devil  have  deceived  the  world. 


Hus.  I'll  not  endure  the*. 

Gent.  But,  of  all  the  worst, 

Thy  virtuous  wife,  right  honorably  allied, 
Thou  hast  proclaimed  a  strumpet. 

Hus.  Nay,  then  I  know  thee ; 

Thou  art  her  champion,  thou ;  her  private  friend  j 
The  party  you  wot  on. 

Gent.  O,  ignoble  thought ! 

I  am  past  my  patient  blood.    Shall  I  stand  idle, 
And  see  my  reputation  touched  to  death  ? 

Hus.  It  has  galled  you,  this ;  has  it  ? 

Gent.  No,  monster ;  I  will  prove 

My  thoughts  did  only  tend  to  virtuous  love. 

Hus.  Love  of  her  virtues  ?  there  it  goes. 

Gent.  Base  spirit, 

To  lay  thy  hate  upon  the  fruitful  honor 
Of  thine  own  bed. 

[They  fight,  and  the  Husband  is  hurt. 

Hus.  Oh ! 

Geni.  Wilt  thou  yield  it  yet  ? 

Hus.  Sir,  sir,  I  have  not  done  with  you. 

Gent.  I  hope  [not]  nor  ne'er  shall  be.1 

[They  fight  again. 

Hus.  Have  you  got  tricks  ?    Are  you  in  cunning 
with  me  ?» 

Gent.  No,  plain  and  right : 
He  needs  no  cunning  that  for  truth  doth  fight. 

[Husband  falls  down. 

Hus.  Hard  fortune  !  am  I  levelled  with  the  ground  ? 

Gent.  Now,  sir,  you  lie  at  mercy. 

Hus.  Ay,  you  slave. 

Gent.  Alas,  that  hate  should  bring  us  to  our  grave  ! 
You  see,  my  sword's  not  thirsty  for  your  life : 
I  am  sorrier  for  your  wound  than  you  yourself. 
Ybu're  of  a  virtuous  house  ;  show  virtuous  deeds  ; 
'Tis  not  your  honor,  'tis  your  folly  bleeds. 
Much  good  has  been  expected  in  your  life  ; 
Cancel  not  all  men's  hopes  :  you  have  a  wife, 
Kind  and  obedient ;  heap  not  wrongful  shame 
On  her  and  your  posterity  ;  let  only  sin  be  sore, 
And  by  this  fall,  rise,  never  to  fall  more. — 
And  so  I  leave  you.  [Exit. 

Hus.  Has  the  dog  left  me,  then, 

After  his  tooth  has  left3  me  ?    O,  my  heart 
Would  fain  leap  after  him.    Revenge,  I  say ; 
I'm  mad  to  be  revenged.    My  strumpet  wife  !  — 
It  is  thy  quarrel  that  rips  thus  my  flesh, 
And  makes  my  breast  spout*  blood ;  but  thou  shalt 

bleed. 

Vanquished  ?  got  down  ?  unable  even  to  speak  ? 
Surely  'tis  want  of  money  makes  men  weak : 
Ay,  'twas  that  o'erthrew  me :  I'd  ne'er  been  down 
else.  [Exit. 

SCENE  III. — Another  Room,  in  the  same. 
Enter  Wife,  in  a  riding-suit,  and  a  Servant. 

Serv.  'Faith,  mistress,  if  it  might  not  be  presurap- 
In  me  to  tell  you  so,  for  his  excuse  [tion 

You  had  small  reason,  knowing  his  abuse. 

Wife.  I  grant  I  had  [small  reason]  ;  but,  alas, 

1  In  former  copies  the  line  runs  thus ;  — 

"  1  hope,  nor  ne'er  shall  do." 

2  "An  I  had  thought  him  BO  valiant,"  &c.,  "so  cunning  In 
fence,"  Sic.— Twelfth  Night. 

3  "  Left"  is  not  the  word  here— perhaps  "  npt." 
*  Other  copies  read,  "  ipit." 


146 


A  YORKSHIRE  TRAGEDY. 


Why  should  our  faults  at  home  be  spread  abroad  ? 

'Tis  grief  enough  within  doors.     At  first  sight, 

Mine  uncle  could  run  o'er  his  prodigal  life. 

As  perfectly,  as  if  his  serious  eye 

Had  numbered  all  his  follies  :  [all  he  knew  :] 

Knew  of  his  mortgaged  lands,  his  friends  in  bonds, 

Himself  withered  with  debts  :  and  in  that  minute 

Had  I  his  nsage  and  unkindness  added, 

'Twould  have  confounded  every  thought  of  good  : 

Where  now,  his  riots  fathering  on  his  youth, 

Which  time  and  tame  experience  will  shake  off — 

Guessing  his  kindness  to  me  (as  I  smoothed  him 

With  all  the  skill  I  had  —  though  his  deserts 

Are  in  form  uglier  than  an  unshaped  bear), 

He's  ready  to  prefer  him  to  some  office 

And  place  at  court ;  a  good  and  sure  relief 

To  all  his  stooping  fortunes.     'Twill  be  a  means, 

I  hope,  to  make  a  new  league  between  us,  and 

Redeem  his  virtues  with  his  lands. 

Serv.  I  should  think  so,  mistress.  If  he  should  not 
now  be  kind  to  you,  and  love  you,  and  so  raise1  you 
up,  I  should  think  the  devil  himself  kept  open  house 
in  him. 

Wife.  I  doubt  not  but  he  will.  Nowpr'ythee  leave 
I  think  I  hear  him  coming.  [me  : 

Serv.  I  am  gone.  [Exit. 

Wife.  By  this  good  means  I  shall  preserve  my 
And  free  my  husband  out  of  usurers'  hands,     [lands, 
Now  there's  no  need  of  sale  ;  my  uncle's  kind  : 
I  hope,  if  aught,  this  will  content  his  mind. 
Here  comes  my  husband. 

Enter  Husband. 

Hus.  Now,  are  you  come  ?  Where's  the  money? 
Let's  see  the  money.  Is  the  rubbish  sold  ?  those  wise- 
acres, your  lands  !  Why,  when?  The  money?  — 
where  is  it  ?  Pour  it  down  ;  down  with  it,  down  with 
it :  I  say  pour't  on  the  ground ;  let's  see  it,  let's  see 
it!  — 

Wife.  Good  sir, 

Keep  but  in  patience,  and  I  hope  my  words 
Shall  like  you  well.    I  bring  you  better  comfort 
Than  the  sale  of  my  dowry. 

Hus.  Ha !  what's  that  ? 

Wife.  Pray  do  not  fright  me,  sir,  but  vouchsafe  me 
hearing.  My  uncle,  glad  of  your  kindness  to  me  and 
mild  usage  (for  so  I  made  it  to  him),  hath,  in  pity 
of  your  declining  fortunes,  provided  a  place  for  you 
at  court,  of  worth  and  credit ;  which  so  much  over- 
joyed me  — 

Hus.  Out  on  thee,  filth  ! 
Over  and  overjoyed,  when  I'm  in  torment  ? 

[Spurns  her. 

Thou  politic  whore,  subtiler  than  nine  devils  ! 
Was  this  thy  journey  to  nunck  ?  to  set  down  the  his- 
tory of  me,  of  my  state  and  fortunes  ?  Shall  I,  that 
dedicated  myself  to  pleasure,  be  now  confined  in  ser- 
vice ?  to  crouch  and  stand  like  an  old  man  i'the  hams, 
my  hat  off?  I  that  could  never  abide  to  uncover  my 
head  i'the  church  ?  Base  slut !  this  fruit  bear  thy 
complaints. 

Wife.  0,  Heaven  knows 

That  my  complaints  were  praises  and  best  words 
Of  you  and  your  estate.    Only,  my  friends 
Knew  of  your  mortgaged  lands,  and  were  possessed 

*  "  Cherish  you  up"  in  previous  editions. 


Of  every  accident  before  I  came. 
If  you  suspect  it  but  a  plot  in  me, 
To  keep  my  dowry,  or  for  mine  own  good, 
Or  my  poor  children's  (though  it  suits  a  mother 
To  show  a  natural  care  in  their  reliefs), 
Yet  I'll  forget  myself  to  calm  your  blood  : 
Consume  it,  as  your  pleasure  counsels  you. 
And  all  I  wish  even  clemency  affords  ; 
Give  me  but  pleasant  looks  and  modest  words. 
Hus.  Money,  whore,  money,  or  I'll  — 

[Draws  a  dagger 

Enter  a  Servant  hastily. 

What  the  devil  !     How  now  ?  thy  hasty  news  ? 

Serv.  May  it  please  you,  sir 

Hus.  What !  may  I  not  look  upon  my  dagger  ?  — 
Speak,  villain,  or  I  will  execute  the  point  on  thee: 
quick,  short ! 

Serv.  Why,  sir,  a  gentleman  from  the  university 
stays  below  to  speak  with  you.  [Exit. 

Hus.  From  the  university  ?  so  ;  university  :  —  that 
long  word  runs  through  me.  Exit. 

Wife.  Was  ever  wife  so  wretchedly  beset  ? 
Had  not  this  news  stepped  in  between,  the  point 
Had  offered  violence  unto  my  breast. 
That  which  some  women  call  great  misery 
Would  show  but  little  here  ;  would  scarce  be  seen 
Among  my  miseries.    I  may  compare, 
For  wretched  fortunes,  with  all  wives  that  are. 
Nothing  will  please  him,  until  all  be  nothing. 
He  calls  it  slavery  to  be  preferred ; 
A  place  of  credit,  a  base  servitude. 
What  shall  become  of  me,  and  my  poor  children, 
Two  here,  and  one  at  nurse  ?  my  pretty  beggars  !3 
I  see  how  ruin  with  a  palsying'  hand 
Begins  to  shake  the  ancient  seat  to  dust : 
The  heavy  weight  of  sorrow  draws  my  lids 
Over  my  dankish4  eyes :  I  scarce  can  see : 
Thus  grief  will  last ;  —  it  wakes  and  sleeps  with  me. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Another  Apartment  in  the  same. 
Enter  Husband  and  the  Master  of  a  College. 

Hus.  Please  you  draw  near,  sir ;  you're  exceeding 
welcome. 

Mast.  That's  my  doubt !  I  fear  I  come  not  to  be 
welcome, 

Hus.  Yes,  howsoever. 

Mast.  'Tis  not  my  fashion,  sir,  to  dwell  in  long  cir- 
cumstance, but  to  be  plain  and  effectual :  therefore  to 
the  purpose.  The  cause  of  my  setting  forth  was  pit- 
eous and  lamentable.  That  hopeful  young  gentle- 
man, your  brother,  whose  virtues  we  all  love  dearly, 
through  your  default  and  unnatural  negligence,  lies  in 
bond  executed  for  your  debt  —  a  prisoner ;  all  his 
studies  amazed,  his  hope  struck  dead,  and  the  pride 
of  his  youth  muffled  in  these  dark  clouds  of  oppres- 
sion. 

Hus.  Umph,  umph,  umph  ! 

Mast.  0,  you  have  killed  the  towardest  hope  of  all 
our  university :  wherefore,  without  repentance  and 

*  So.  in  the  same  spirit,  Macduff  speaks  of  "my  pretty 
chickens,"  &c. 

3  "  Palsy"  in  the  old  copies. 

•*  Other  copies  read  "  darkish"  as  well  as  "  dankish"  The 
latter  is  the  more  appropriate  word,  but  reads  unpleasantly 
in  the  line. 


SCENE  V. 


147 


amends,  expect  ponderous  and  sudden  judgments  to 
fall  grievously  upon  you.  Your  brother,  a  man  who 
profited  in  his  divine  employments,  and  might  have 
made  ten  thousand  souls  fit  for  heaven,  is  now,  by 
your  careless  courses,  cast  into  prison,  which  you 
must  answer  for  ;  and  assure  your  spirit  it  will  come 
home  at  length. 

Hits.  O  God  !  oh  ! 

Mast.  Wise  men  think  ill  of  you  ;  others  speak  ill 
of  you  ;  no  man  loves  you  ;  nay,  even  those  whom 
honesty  condemns,  condemn  you.  And  take  this 
from  the  virtuous  affection  I  bear  your  brother:  never 
look  for  prosperous  hour,  good  thoughts,  quiet  sleep, 
contented  walks,  nor  anything  that  makes  man  per- 
fect, till  you  redeem  him.  What  is  your  answer? 
How  will  you  bestow  him  ?  Upon  desperate  misery, 
or  better  hopes?  —  I  suffer  till  I  hear  your  answer. 

Hus.  Sir,  you  have  much  wrought  with  me  ;  I  feel 
you  in  my  soul :  you  are  your  art's  master.  I  never 
had  sense  till  now ;  your  syllables  have  cleft  me. 
Both  for  your  words  and  pains  I  thank  you.  I  can 
not  but  acknowledge  grievous  wrongs  done  to  my 
brother ;  mighty,  mighty,  mighty,  mighty  wrongs. — 
Within,  there  ! 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Hus.  Fill  me  a  bowl  of  wine.  [Exit  Servant.]  Alas  ! 
poor  brother,  bruised  with  an  execution  for  my  sake  ! 

Mast.  A  bruise  indeed  makes  many  a  mortal  sore, 
Till  the  grave  cure  them. 

Re-enter  Servant  with  wine. 

Hus.  Sir,  I  begin  to  you ;  you've  chid  your  wel- 
come. 

Mast.  I  could  have  wished  it  better  for  your  sake. 
I  pledge  you,  sir  :  To  the  kind  man  in  prison. 

Hus.  Let  it  be  so.  Now,  sir,  if  you  please  to  spend 
but  a  few  minutes  in  a  walk  about  my  grounds  below, 
my  man  here  shall  attend  you.  I  doubt  not  but  by 
that  time  to  be  furnished  of  a  sufficient  answer,  and 
therein  my  brother  fully  satisfied. 

Mast .  Good  sir,  in  that  the  angels  would  be  pleased, 
And  the  world's  murmurs  calmed ;  and  I  should  say, 
I  set  forth  then  upon  a  lucky  day. 

[Exeunt  Master  and  Servant. 

Hus.  O  thou  confused  man  !  Thy  pleasant  sins 
have  undone  thee  ;  thy  damnation  has  beggared  thee. 
That  Heaven  should  say  we  must  not  sin,  and  yet 
made  women  !  give  our  senses  way  to  find  pleasure, 
which,  being  found,  confounds  us  !  Why  should  we 
know  those  things  so  much  misuse  us  ?  O,  would 
virtue  had  been  forbidden  !  We  should  then  have 
proved  all  virtuous ;  for  'tis  our  blood  to  love  what  we 
are  forbidden.  Had  not  drunkenness  been  forbidden, 
what  man  would  have  been  fool  to  a  beast,  and  zany 
to  a  swine  —  to  show  tricks  in  the  mire  ?  What  is 
there  in  three  dice,1  to  make  a  man  draw  thrice  three 
thousand  acres  into  the  compass  of  a  little  round  ta- 
ble, and  with  the  gentleman's  palsy  in  the  hand  shake 
out  his  posterity  thieves  or  beggars?  'Tis  done ;  I 
have  done't,  i'faith  :  terrible,  horrible  misery  !  —  How 
well  was  I  left !  Very  well,  very  well.  My  lands 
showed  like  a  full  moon  about  me  ;  but  now  the 
moon's  in  the  last  quarter — waning,  waning;  and  I 

1  The  game  called  passage,  or  pass-dice,  was  played  with 
three  dice.  See  note  to  "  Sir  John  Oldcastle,"  page  104. 


am  mad  to  think  that  moon  was  mine  ;  mine,  and  my 
father's,  and  my  forefathers' ;  generations,  genera- 
tions.—  Down  goes  the  house  of  us  ;  down,  down  it 
sinks  !  Now  is  the  name  a  beggar ;  begs  in  me.  — 
That  name  which,  hundreds  of  years,  has  made  this 
shire  famous,  in  me  and  my  posterity  runs  out.  In 
my  seed  five  are  made  miserable  besides  myself:  my 
riot  is  now  my  brother's  gaoler,  my  wife's  sighing, 
my  three  boys'  penury,  and  mine  own  confusion. 
Why  sit  my  hairs  upon  my  cursed  head  ? 

[  Tears  his  hair. 

Will  not  this  poison  scatter  them  ?    0,  my  brother  ! 
In  execution  among  devils  that 
Stretch  him  and  make  him  give  ;2  and  I  in  want, 
Not  able  to  relieve3  nor  to  redeem  him  ! 
Divines  and  dying  men  may  talk  of  hell, 
But  in  my  heart  her  several  torments  dwell : 
Slavery  and  misery  !     Who,  in  this  case, 
Would  not  take  money  up  upon  his  soul  ? 
Pawn  his  salvation,  live  at  interest  ? 
I,  that  did  ever  in  abundance  dwell, 
For  me  to  want,  exceeds  the  throes  of  hell. 

Enter  a  little  Boy  with  a  Top  and  Scourge. 

Son.  What  ails  you,  father  ?  Are  you  not  well  ? 
I  can  not  scourge  my  top  as  long  as  you  stand  so. 
You  take  up  all  the  room  with  your  wide  legs.  Puh  I 
you  can  not  make  me  afraid  with  this  ;  I  fear  no  viz- 
ards, nor  bugbears. 

[He  takes  up  the  Child  by  the  skirts  of  his 
long  coat  uith  one  hand,  and  draws 
his  dagger  with  the  other. 

Hus.  Up,  sir,  for  here  thou  hast  no  inheritance  left. 
Son.  O,  what  will  you  do,  father  ?  I  am  your  white 
boy. 
Hus.  Thou  shall  be  my  red  boy ;  take  that. 

[Strikes  him. 

Son.  0,  you  hurt  me,  father. 
Hus.  My  eldest  beggar, 
Thou  shalt  not  live  to  ask  a  usurer  bread  ; 
To  cry  at  a  great  man's  gate  ;  or  follow, 
"  Good  your  honor,"    by  a  coach ;   no,  nor  your 

brother : 

'Tis  charity  to  brain  you. 
Son.  How  shall  1  learn,  now  my  head's  broke  ? 
Hus.  Bleed,  bleed,  [Stabs  him. 

Rather  than  beg.    Be  not  thy  name's  disgrace  : 
Spurn  thou  thy  fortune's  first ;  if  they  be  base, 
Come  view  thy  second  brother's.    Fates  !    My  chil- 
dren's blood 

Shall  spin  into  your  faces  ;  you  shall  see, 
How  confidently  we  scorn  beggary  ! 

[Exit  with  his  Son. 

SCENE  V. 

A  Maid  discovered  with  a  Child  in  her  arms;  the 
Mother  on  a  couch  by  her,  asleep. 

Maid.  Sleep,  sweet  babe  ;  sorrow  makes  thy  mother 

sleep : 

It  bodes  small  good  when  heaviness  falls  so  deep. 
Hush,  pretty  boy  ;  thy  hopes  might  have  been  better. 
'Tis  lost  at  dice,  what  ancient  honor  won : 
Hard,  when  the  father  plays  away  the  son  ! 

*  Steevens  detects  a  pun  in  this  passage.    Leather,  he  re- 
minds us,  when  stretched,  is  said  "  to  give" — that  is,  yield, 
s  "  For  to  live"  in  other  editions. 


148 


A  YORKSHIRE  TRAGEDY. 


Nothing  but  misery  serves!  in  this  house ; 
Ruin  and  Desolation.    Oh  ' 

Enter  Husband,  with  his  Son  bleeding. 

Hut.  Whore,  give  me  that  boy. 

[Strives  uith  her  for  the  Child. 

Maid.  0,  help,  help  !  Out,  alas  !  murther,  murther  ! 

Hits.  Are  you  gossiping,  you  prating,,  sturdy  quean  ? 
I'll  break  your  clamor  with  your  neck.  Down  stairs  ; 
Tumble,  tumble,  headlong.  So  :  — 

[He  throws  her  down  and  stabs  the  Child. 
The  surest  way  to  charm  a  woman's  tongue, 
Is  —  break  her  neck :  a  politician  did  it.3 

Son.  Mother,  mother  ;  1  am  killed,  mother ! 

[Wife  awakes. 

Wife.  Ha,  who's  that  cried  ?  0,  me  !  my  children 

Both  bloody,  bloody  !  [both  ! 

[Catches  up  the  youngest  Child. 

Hus.  Strumpet,  let  go  the  boy ;  let  go  the  beggar. 

Wife.  0,  my  sweet  husband ! 

Hus.  Filth,  harlot  ! 

Wife.  O,  what  will  you  do,  dear  husband? 

Hus.  Give  me  the  bastard  ! 

Wife.  Your  own  sweet  boy  — 

Hus.  There  are  too  many  beggars. 

Wife.  Good  my  husband — 

Hus.  Dost  thou  prevent  me  still  ? 

Wife.  O,  God ! 

Hus.  Have  at  his  heart. 

[Stabs  at  the  Child  in  her  arms. 

Wife.  O,  my  dear  boy  ! 

Hus.  Brat,  thon  shall  not  live  to  shame  thy  house  — 

Wife.  Oh,  Heaven  !       [She  is  hurt,  and  sinks  down. 

Hus.  And  perish  !  —  Now  be  gone  :  [one. 

There's  whores  enough,  and  want  would  make  thee 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  O,  sir,  what  deeds  are  these  ? 

Hus.  Base  slave,  my  vassal ! 
Com'st  thou  between  my  fury  to  question  me  ? 

Serv.  Were  you  the  devil,  I  would  hold  you,  sir. 

Hus.  Hold  me  ?  Presumption  !  I'll  undo  thee  for  it. 

Serv.  'Sblood  !  you  have  undone  us  all,  sir. 

Hus.  Tug  at  thy  master  ? 

Serv.  Tug  at  a  monster. 

Hus.  Have  I  no  power  ?  Shall  my  slave  fetter  me  ? 

Serv.  Nay.  then  the  devil  wrestles :  I  am  thrown. 

Hus.  0,  villain  !   now  I'll  tug  thee,  now  I'll  tear 

thee ; 
Set  quick  spurs  to  my  vassal  ;3  bruise  him,  trample 

him. 

So :  I  think  thou  wilt  not  follow  me  in  haste. 
My  horse  stands  ready  saddled.    Away,  away ; 
Now  to  my  brat  at  nurse,  my  sucking  beggar  : 
Fates,  I'll  not  leave  you  one  to  trample  on  !    [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.— Court  before  the  House. 

Enter  Husband  ;  to  him  the  Master  of  the  College. 

Mast.  How  is  it  with  you,  sir  ? 
Methinks  you  look  of  a  distracted  color. 
Hus.  Who,  I,  sir  ?     'Tis  but  your  fancy. 

1  Query:  survives? 

8  This  is  supposed  to  allude  to  the  imputed  murder  of  his 
wile  by  the  earl  of  Leicester. 

3  He  uses  his  spurs  in  the  struggle.  The  rowel  in  that 
day  was  no  bad  substitute  for  the  dagger.  Their  points 
were  more  than  an  inch  long,  sharp,  and  with  broad  blades. 


Please  you  walk  in,  sir,  and  I'll  soon  resolve  you : 
I  want  one  small  part  to  make  up  the  sum, 
And  then  my  brother  shall  rest  satisfied. 
Mast.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  it :  sir,  I'll  attend  you. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.  —  A  Room  in  the  House. 
The  Wife,  Servant,  and  Children  discovered. 

Serv.  Oh,  I  'm  scarce  able  to  heave  up  myself, 
He  has  so  bruised  me  with  his  devilish  weight, 
And  torn  my  flesh  with  his  blood-hasty  spur: 
A  man  before  of  easy  constitution, 
Till  now  hell  power  supplied,  to  his  soul's  wrong  : 
0,  how  damnation  can  make  weak  men  strong  ! 

Enter  the  Master  of  the  College  and  two  Servants. 

Serv.  O,  the  most  piteous  deed,  sir,  since  you  came  ! 

Mast.  A  deadly  greeting  !    Hath  he   summed  up 

these 

To  satisfy  his  brother  ?  Here's  another  ; 
And  by  the  bleeding  infants,  the  dead  mother. 

Wife.  Oh  !  oh ! 

Mast.  Surgeons  !  surgeons  !  she  recovers  life  :  — 
One  of  his  men  all  faint  and  bloodied  ! 

1  Serv.  Follow;  our  murtherous  master  has  took 

horse 
To  kill  his  child  at  nurse.    0,  follow  quickly. 

Mast.  I  am  the  readiest ;  it  shall  be  my  charge 
To  raise  the  town  upon  him. 

1  Serv.  Good  sir.  do  follow  him. 

[Exeunt  Master  and  two  Servants 

Wife.  0,  my  children  ! 

1  Serv.  How  is  it  with  my  most  afflicted  mistress? 

Wife.  Why  do  I  now  recover  ?  Why  half  live, 
To  see  my  children  bleed  before  mine  eyes  ? 
A  sight  able  to  kill  a  mother's  breast,  without 
An  executioner.  —  What,  art  thou  mangled  too  ? 

1  Serv.  I,  thinking  to  prevent  what  his  quick  mis- 
chiefs 

Had  so  soon  acted,  came  and  rushed  upon  him. 
We  struggled  ;  but  a  fouler  strength  than  his 
O'erthrew  me  with  his  arms :  then  did  he  bruise  me, 
And  rend  my  flesh,  and  rob'd  me  of  my  hair ; 
And  like  a  man  in  execution  mad, 
Made  me  unfit  to  rise  and  follow  him. 

Wife.  What   is  it  has  beguiled  him  of  all  grace, 
And  stole  away  humanity 'from  his  breast  ? 
To  slay  his  children,  purpose  to  kill  his  wife, 
And  spoil  his  servants  — 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Please  you  to  leave  this  most  accursed  place : 
A  surgeon  waits  within. 

Wife.  Willing  to  leave  it  ? 
'Tis  guilty  of  sweet  blood,  of  innocent  blood: 
Murder  has  took  this  chamber  with  full  hands, 
And  will  ne'er  out  as  long  as  the  house  stands. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  VIII.— A  High  Road. 
Enter  Husband.    He  falls. 

Hus.  0,  stumbling  jade  !  The  spavin  overtake  thee  .' 
The  fifty  diseases  stop  thee  !4 

*  There  is  an  old  book  by  Gervase  Monkham,  entitled* 
"  The  Fifty  Diseases  of  a  Horse."  A  similar  speech  occurs 
in  Taming  of  the  Shrew. 


SCENE  X. 


149 


Oh,  I  am  sorely  bruised  !    Plague  founder  thee  ! 
Thou  runnest  at  ease  and  pleasure.    Heart  of  chance  ! 
To  throw  me  now,  within  a  flight  o'  the  town, 
In  such  plain  even  ground  too  !     'Sfoot !  a  man 
May  dice  upon't,  and  throw  away  the  meadows. 
Filthy  beast  ! 

[Cry  within.}  Follow,  follow,  follow. 

Hits.  Ha  !  I  hear  the  sounds  of  men,  like  hue  and 
Up,  up,  and  struggle  to  thy  horse  ;  make  on  ;  [cry. 
Despatch  that  little  beggar,  and  all's  done. 

[Cry  irithin.']  Here,  here  ;  this  way,  this  way. 

Hus.  At  my  back  ?    Oh, 
What  fate  have  I  !  my  limbs  deny  me  go. 
My  will  is  baited  ;  beggary  claims  a  part. 
0,  could  I  here  reach  to  the  infant's  heart ! 

Enter  the  Master  of  the  College,  three  Gentlemen,  and 
Attendants  uith  Halberds. 

All.  Here,  here  ;  yonder,  yonder  ! 

Mast.  Unnatural,  flinty,  more  than  barbarous  ! 
The  Scythians,  even  the  marble-hearted  Kates, 
Could  not  have  acted  more  remorseless  deeds, 
In  their  relentless  natures,  than  these  of  thine. 
Was  this  the  answer  I  long  waited  a.  ? 
The  satisfaction  for  thy  prisoned  brotner  ? 

Hus.  Why,  he  can  have  no  more  of  us  than  our 
And  some  of  them  want  but  fleaing.  [skins, 

1  Gent.  Great  sins  have  made  him  impudent. 
Mast.  He  has  shed  so  much  blood,  that  he  can  not 

blush. 

2  Gent.  Away  with  him,  and  bear  him  to  the  jus- 
A  gentleman  of  worship  dwells  at  hand  :  [tice. 
There  shall  his  deeds  be  blazed. 

Hus.  Why,  all  the  better. 

My  glory  'tis  to  have  my  action  known  ; 
I  grieve  for  nothing,  but  I  missed  of  one. 

Mast.  There's  little  of  a  father  in  that  grief: 
Bear  him  away.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IX.  —  A  Room  in  the  House  of  a  Magistrate. 
Enter  a  Knight  and  three  Gentlemen. 

Knight.  Endangered  so  his  wife  ?  murdered  his  chil- 
dren ? 

1  Gent.  So  the  cry  goes. 

Knight.  I  am  sorry  I  e'er  knew  him  ; 

That  ever  he  took  life  and  natural  being 
From  such  an  honored  stock,  and  fair  descent, 
Till  this  black  minute  without  stain  or  blemish. 

1  Gent.  Here  come  the  men. 

Enter  Master  of  the  College,  fyc.,  U'ith  the  Prisoner. 

Knight.  The  serpent  of  his  house  !  [Oh  !]  I  am  sor- 
For  this  time,  that  I  am  in  place  of  justice.  [ry, 

Mas?.  Please  you,  sir 

Knig'it.  Do  not  repeat  it  twice  ;  I  know  too  much : 
Would  it  had  ne'er  been  thought  on  !    Sir,  I  bleed  for 
you. 

1  Gent.  Your  father's  sorrows  are  alive  in  me. 
What  made  you  show  such  monstrous  cruelty  ? 

Hus.  In  a  word,  sir,  I  have  consumed  all,  played 
away  long-acre  ;  and  I  thought  it  the  charitablest  deed 
I  could  do,  to  cozen  beggary,  and  knock  my  house  o' 
the  head. 

Knight.  0,  in  a  cooler  blood  you  will  repent  it. 

Hus.  I  repent  now  that  one  is  left  unkilled : 
My  brat  at  nurse.    I  would  full  fain  have  weaned  him. 


Knight.  Well,  I  do  not  think,  but  in  to-morrow's 
The  terror  will  sit  closer  to  your  soul,       [judgment, 
When  the  dread  thought  of  death  remembers  you : 
To  further  which,  take  this  sad  voice  from  me, 
Never  was  act  played  more  unnaturally. 

Hus.  I  thank  you,  sir. 

Knight.  Go  lead  him  to  the  gaol : 

Where  justice  claims  all,  there  must  pity  fail. 

Hus.  Come,  come  ;  away  with  me. 

[Exeunt  Husband,  <$•<:. 

Mast.  Sir,  you  deserve  the  worship  of  your  place  ; 
Would  all  did  so  !     In  you  the  law  is  grace. 

Knight.  It  is  my  wish  it  should  be  so.  — Ruinous1 
The  desolation  of  his  house,  the  blot  [man  ! 

Upon  his  predecessors'  honored  name  ! 
That  man  is  nearest  shame,  that  is  past  shame. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  X.  —  Before  Calverly  Hall. 

Enter  Husband  guarded,  Master  of  the  College,  Gentle- 
men, and  Attendants. 

Hus.  I  am  risht  against  my  house  —  seat  of  my  an- 

Ci  sl-ii's  ' 

I  hear  my  wite  s  a.ive,  but  much  endangered. 
Let  me  entreat  to  speak  with  her,  before 
The  prison  gripe  me. 

His  Wife  is  brought  in. 

Gent.  See,  here  she  comes  of  herself. 

Wife.  O  my  sweet  husband,  my  dear  distressed 
Now  in  the  hands  of  unrelenting  laws,         [husband 
My  greatest  sorrow,  my  extremes!  bleeding  ; 
Now  my  soul  bleeds. 

Hus.  How  now  ?    Kind  to  me  ?     Did  I  not  wound 
Left  thee  for  dead  ?  [thee  ? 

Wife.  Tut,  far,  far  greater  wounds  did  my  breast 

feel; 

Unkindness  strikes  a  deeper  wound  than  steel. 
You  have  been  still  unkind  to  me. 

Hus.  1'faith,  and  so  I  think  I  have. 
I  did  my  murders  roughly  out  of  hand, 
Desperate  and  sudden  ;  but  th»u  hast  devised 
A  fine  way  now  to  kill  me  :  thou'st  given  mine  eyes 
Seven  wounds  apiece.    Now  glides  the  devil  from  me, 
Departs  at  every  joint ;  heaves  up  my  nails. 
0  catch  him,  torments  that  were  ne'er  invented  ! 
Bind  him  one  thousand  more,2  you  blessed  angels, 
In  that  pit  bottomless !     Let  him  not  rise 
To  make  men  act  unnatural  tragedies  ; 
To  spread  into  a  father,  and  in  fury 
Make  him  his  children's  executioner  ; 
Murder  his  wife,  his  servants,  and  who  not  ?  — 
For  that  man's  dark,  where  heaven  is  quite  forgot. 

Wife.  O  my  repentant  husband ! 

Hus.  O  my  dear  soul,  whom   I  too  much  have 

wronged  ! 
For  death  I  die,  and  for  this  have  I  longed. 

Wife.  Thou  shouldst  not,  be  assured,  for  these 

If  the  law  could  forgive  as  soon  as  I.        [faults  die, 

[  The  two  Children  laid  out. 

Hus.  What  sight  is  yonder  ? 

Wife.  O,  our  two  bleeding  boys,. 

Laid  forth  upon  the  threshold. 

t  I  should  prefer  ravenous  here.    "  Ruinous"  is  an  epithet 
quite  too  feeble  and  inexpressive  for  such  a  case. 
2  Years,  understood. 


150 


A  YORKSHIRE  TRAGEDY. 


Hus.  Here's  weight  enough  to  make  a  heartstring 
O,  were  it  lawful  that  your  pretty  souls  [crack  ! 

Might  look  from  heaven  into  your  father's  eyes, 
Then  should  you  see  the  penitent  glasses  melt, 
And  boih  your  murders  shoot  upon  my  cheeks  ! 
But  you  are  playing  in  the  angels'  laps, 
And  will  not  look  on  me,  who,  void  of  grace, 
Killed  you  in  beggary. 

0  that  I  might  my  wishes  now  attain, 

1  should  then  wish  you  living  were  again, 
Though  I  did  beg  with  you,  which  thing  I  feared : 
O,  'twas  the  enemy  my  eyes  so  bleared  ! 

0,  would  you  could  pray  Heaven  me  forgive, 
That  will  unto  my  end  repentant  live  ! 

Wife.  It  makes  me  e'en  forget  all  other  sorrows, 
And  live  apart  with  this. 

Offl.  Come,  will  you  go  ? 

Hus.  I'll  kiss  the  blood  I  spilt,  and  then  I'll  go : 
My  soul  is  bloodied,  well  may  my  lips  be  so  ! 
Farewell,  dear  wife  ;  now  thou  and  1  must  part : 

1,  of  thy  wrongs  repent  me,  with  my  heart. 
Wife.  O  stay  ;  thou  shall  not  go  ! 


Hus.  That's  but  in  vain  ;  you  see  it  must  be  so. 
Farewell,  ye  bloody  ashes  of  my  boys  ! 
My  punishments  are  their  eternal  joys. 
Let  every  father  look  into  my  deeds, 
And  then  their  heirs  may  prosper,  while  mine  bleeds. 
[Exeunt  Husband  and  Officers. 

Wife.  More  wretched  am  I  now  in  this  distress, 
Than  former  sorrows  made  me. 

Mast.  0  kind  wife, 

Be  comforted  ;  one  joy  is  yet  unmurdered  ; 
You  have  a  boy  at  nurse  :  your  joy's  in  him. 

Wife.  Dearer  than  all  is  my  poor  husband's  life. 
Heaven  give  my  body  strength,  which  yet  is  faint 
With  much  expense  of  blood  ;  and  I  will  kneel. 
Sue  for  his  life,  number  up  all  my  friends 
To  plead  for  pardon  for  my  dear  husband's  life. 

Mast.  Was  it  in  man  to  wound  so  kind  a  creature  ? 
I'll  ever  praise  a  woman  for  thy  sake. 
I  must  return  with  grief;  my  answer's  set ; 
I  shall  bring  news  weighs  heavier  than  the  debt. 
Two  brothers —  one  in  bond  lies  overthrown  — 
This  on  a  deadlier  execution.  [Exeunt. 


K  KND  OF  A  YOHKSHIllE 


INTRODUCTION 


TO 


THE    TRAGEDY    OF    LOCRINE 


THE  tragedy  of  "  LOCRINE"  was  originally  printed 
in  quarto,  under  the  following  title  :  "  The  lamenta- 
ble Tragedie  of  Locrine,  the  Eldest  Sonne  of  King 
Brutus,  discoursing  the  Warres  of  the  Britaines  and 
Hunnes,  with  their  Discomfiture.  The  Britaines'  Vic- 
torie,  with  their  Accidents,  and  the  Death  of  Alba- 
nact.  No  less  pleasant  and  profitable.  Newly  set 
foorth,  ouerseene  and  corrected  by  W.  S.  London, 
printed  by  Thomas  Creede,  1595."  The  play  was  en- 
tered on  the  books  of  the  Stationers'  Company  on  the 
20th  of  July,  1594.  It  was  not  included  among  the 
works  of  Shakspeare  until  seventy  years  after  its  first 
publication.  There  is  no  tradition  which  ascribes  it 
to  him.  The  publishers  who  classed  it  with  his  known 
writings,  seem  to  have  taken  its  authorship  for  grant- 
ed ;  whether  on  the  simple  authority  of  the  initials 
W.  S.,  which  accompanied  its  original  publication,  or 
on  the  strength  of  evidence  which  has  not  come  down 
to  us,  can  not  now  be  ascertained.  What  value  to 
attach  to  these  initials  is  another  difficult  question  ; 


and,  if  Shakspeare's,  the  further  question  is,  in  what 
degree  he  participated  in  the  production  of  a  piece, 
of  which  we  are  told  only  that  it  was  "  newly  set 
foorth,  ouerseene  and  corrected"  by  him.  Mr.  Stee- 
vens  says  :  "  Supposing  for  a  moment  that  W.  S.  here 
stood  for  our  great  poet's  name  (which  is  extremely 
improbable),  these  words  prove  that  Shakspeare  was 
not  the  writer  of  this  performance.  If  it  was  only 
set  forth,  overseen,  and  corrected,  it  was  not  com- 
posed by  him."  This  conclusion,  however  confident, 
Mr.  Knight  stops  with  a  non  sequitur.  He  shows  an 
exact  parallel  to  the  title-page  of  "  Locrine,"  in  one 
of  the  generally-recognised  plays  of  Shakspeare,  viz. : 
"  A  pleasant,  conceited  Comedie,  called  Love's  La- 
bour Lost.  As  it  was  presented  before  her  Highness 
the  last  Christmas.  Newly  corrected  and  augmented 
by  W.  Shakspeare."  But,  though  we  show  that  in 
plays  unquestionably  from  the  hands  of  the  great 
master,  he  was  modestly  set  forth  as  the  corrector 
and  augmentor  only,  it  does  not  follow  necessarily 


152 


INTRODUCTION. 


that  our  W.  S.  is  William  Shakspeare.  About  the  time 
of  the  publication  of  this  play  of  "  Locrine,"  England 
was  in  possession  of  a  certain  William  Stafford,  who 
published  political  pamphlets  bearing  his  initials  only. 
Still,  as  Stafford's  pamphlets  were  never  imputed  to 
Shakspeare,  by  any  of  the  myriad  admirers  of  the  lat- 
ter, so  it  is  equally  certain  that  neither  the  friends  nor 
the  foes  of  Stafford  ever  laid  "  Locrine;'  at  his  door. 
In  1596,  however,  one  William  Smith  was  living  and 
writing,  whose  claims  to  its  authorship  might  be 
urged  more  plausibly.  He  was  the  author  of  a  collec- 
tion of  sonnets  ;  and  in  1600,  a  love-poem  appeared  in 
"  England's  Helicon,"  bearing  the  initials  W.  S.  This 
also  may  have  proceeded  from  the  pen  of  William 
Smith.  Another  of  the  Smith  family,  about  the  same 
period,  is  known  to  have  had  a  right  to  these  initials, 
who  is  even  known  as  a  writer  for  the  stage.  This 
was  Wentworth  Smith,  who,  according  to  Mr.  Knight, 
wrote  many  dramatic  pieces  "  in  conjunction  with  the 
best  poets  of  that  prolific  period."  We  regret  that 
Mr.  Knight  has  not  given  us  some  specimens  from 
the  numerous  dramas  of  this  author,  by  which  we 
could  have  formed  some  general  idea  with  regard  to 
his  peculiar  qualities.  Our  own  collection  of  ancient 
British  dramatic  authors  contains  nothing  which  ena- 
bles us  to  form  a  judgment  in  relation  to  his  claims  to 
"  Locrine."  Mr.  Collier,  in  his  "  Annals  of  the  Stage," 
tells  us  only  that  he  was  the  author  of  "  The  Italian 
Tragedy"  and  "  Hector  of  Germany,"  and  was  con- 
cerned in  the  production  of  the  "  Six  Yeomen  of  the 
West,"  with  William  Haughton,  John  Day,  and  Rich- 
ard Hathwaye  ;  none  of  them  quite  worthy  to  be  dis- 
tinguished with  the  "  best  poets  of  that  prolific  pe- 
riod." Were  any  of  the  writings  of  Wentworth  Smith 
extant,  it  would  have  been  only  proper,  on  the  part 
of  Mr.  Knight,  to  have  followed  the  suggestion  of  his 
name,  in  this  connexion,  with  some  specimens  of  his 
muse.  It  might  then  have  been  possible,  by  a  com- 
parison of  his  verses  with  those  of  "  Locrine,"  to 
determine  in  what  degree  the  internal  evidence  was 
likely  to  sustain  his  initials  in  the  claim  to  the  au- 
thorship, not  of  "  Locrine"  only,  but  of  '•'  Titus  An- 
dronicus,"  which  not  only  equally  suffers  from  like 
doubtful  paternity,  but  the  characteristics  of  which,  to 
our  notion,  justify  us  in  tracing  it  to  the  same  sources 
with  the  former  play.  But  of  this,  hereafter. 

Here,  then,  amid  a  great  variety  of  conflicting 
claims,  a  nearly  equal  doubt  hanging  over  all,  the 
field  of  conjecture  lies  sufficiently  open.  The  critics 
have  partially  availed  themselves  of  its  privileges. 
Tieck,  the  German,  describes  "  Locrine"  as  the  earli- 
est of  Shakspeare's  dramas.  He  suggests  that  the 
story  has  a  political  application  —  and  was  intended 
to  shadow  forth  the  nature  and  character  of  the  com- 
motions which  troubled  the  peace  of  England,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  sympathy  accorded  to  Mary  Stuart, 
then  in  the  bonds  of  Elizabeth.  He  supposes  it  to 
have  been  written  prior  to  the  execution  of  the  for- 
mer, and  probably  in  order  to  the  justification  of  that 
sharp  judgment  which  led  her  to  the  block.  But  the 
English  reader  will  smile  at  such  an  opinion.  There 
is  nothing  of  a  modern  complexion  in  "  Locrine."  The 
story  is  an  old  one.  The  author  religiously  follows 
the  tradition  —  quite  as  slavishly,  indeed,  as  it  is  pos- 
sible for  a  dramatic  author  to  follow  ;  and,  as  for  any 
effect  which  the  sentiment  of  "  Locrine"  would  have 
produced  on  the  popular  feeling  or  patriotism  of  the 


English,  at  the  juncture  alluded  to,  it  will  be  only  ne- 
cessary to  advert  to  the  prevailing  passion  of  the 
piece,  which  is  revenge,  and  which  is  made  through- 
out to  occupy  almost  exclusively  the  attention  of  the 
spectator  —  to  show  how  little  were  the  politics  of 
the  time  in  the  contemplation  of  the  writer.  Doubt- 
less, a  few  lines,  here  and  there,  might  have  a  pres- 
ent application,  but  these  are  evidently  grafts  on  the 
original,  rudely  introduced,  and  probably  by  another 
hand  than  that  of  the  author.  Proof  of  this,  indeed, 
occurs  to  us  in  a  single  instance,  which  probably  led 
Tieck  to  his  singularly  foreign  conjecture.  The  play, 
as  we  have  seen,  was  entered  on  the  books  of  the  Sta- 
tioners' Company  on  the  20th  July,  1594.  But  the 
piece  concludes  with  certain  lines  which  fix  the  date 
in  the  thirty-eighth  year  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  reign, 
which  began  on  the  17th  of  November,  1595,  nearly 
eighteen  months  after :  — 

"La  here  the  end  of  lawless  treachery, 
Of  usurpation,  and  ambitious  pride  ! 
And  they  that  for  their  private  amours  dart 
Turmoil  our  land,  and  set  their  broils  abroach, 
Let  then  be  warned  by  these  premises. 
And  as  a  woman  was  the  only  cause 
That  civil  discord  was  then  stirred  up, 
So  let  us  pray  for  that  renowned  maid 
That  eight-and-thirty  years  the  sceptre  Swayei, 
In  quiet  peace  and  sweet  felicity : 
And  every  wight  that  seeks  her  grace's  smart, 
Would  that  this  sword  were  pierced  in  his  heart ."' 

This  passage  was  evidently  written  after  the  entry 
at  Stationers'  Hall.  It  is  probably  the  only  passage 
in  the  play  which  has  a  direct  political  bearing -on 
the  events  of  the  time.  The  allusion  to  Mary  Stuart 
and  her  lovers  is  quite  as  obvious  as  that  to  Elizabeth. 
The  speech  is  spoken  by  Ate,  who  acts  as  chorus 
throughout,  and  with  this  speech  the  play  is  conclu- 
ded. But,  if  the  reader  will  look  to  the  piece  itself, 
he  will  find  the  appropriate  conclusion  in  the  language 
of  Guendeline,  and  that  probably  which  alone  was 
made  by  the  author.  Indeed,  the  conclusion  thus 
made  is  singularly  appropriate,  and  in  point  of  style 
is  equally  excellent  and  Shaksperian.  The  language 
is  noble,  to  the  purpose,  and  the  verse  perfectly  unex- 
ceptionable. Let  the  reader  compare  the  structure 
of  this  last  speech  with  any  of  the  favorite  passages 
of  "  Titus  Andronicus  j"  compare  it  with  the  extrav- 
agance of  most  of  the  speeches  of  "  Locrine"  itself. 
to  appreciate  the  evident  improvement  of  the  author 
under  practice. 

The  lines  which  we  have  quoted  are  evidently  an 
excrescence  on  the  original  production.  They  are 
not  needed  to  the  conclusion,  which  they  absolutely 
cumber  and  impair.  We  have  no  doubt  that  they  were 
written  long  after  the  play  itself,  and  were  intended 
for  a  present  occasion.  When  Mr.  Knight  asserts 
that  "  the  piece,  if  acted  at  all,  was  presented  in  the 
latter  part  of  the  year  of  which  the  first  edition  (that 
of  1595)  bears  the  date,"  we  are  doubtful  of  the 
sources  of  his  conclusion.  If  these  verses  only,  it 
will  suffice  to  take  for  granted  that  the  play  was  cer- 
tainly produced  in  the  thirty-eighth  year  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  possibly  in  the  presence  of  the  court ;  but 
how  frequently  before,  is  not  concluded  by  the  graft 
above  quoted,  which  seems  rudely  fastened  upon  the 
tail  of  the  piece.  Its  matter,  certainly,  is  not  woven 
in  with  the  web,  as  would  have  been  the  case  were 


INTRODUCTION. 


153 


the  conjectures  of  Tieck  raised  upon  any  just  founda- 
tion. But  nothing  can  be  more  idle  than  his  theory. 
We  could  scarcely  conceive  of  a  piece,  presented  to 
an  English  audience,  so  thoroughly  passionate — af- 
ter its  own  artificial  style  of  passion — and  so  little 
given  to  passing  politics,  as  this  tragedy.  "  Locrine" 
was  translated  by  Tieck  into  the  German.  He  de- 
scribes the  piece,  tolerably  justly,  as  "  bearing  the 
marks  of  a  young  poet  unacquainted  with  the  stage, 
who  endeavors  to  sustain  himself  constantly  in  a  pos- 
ture of  elevation  ;  who  purposely  (?)  neglects  the 
necessary  rising  and  sinking  of  tone  and  effect ;  and 
who,  with  wonderful  energy,  endeavors,  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  to  make  his  personages  speak  in  the  same 
highly-wrought  and  poetical  language,  while,  at  the 
same  time,  he  shakes  out  all  his  school  learning  on  ev- 
ery possible  occasion."  Commenting  on  this  descrip- 
tion. Mr.  Knight  remarks  :  "  It  must  be  evident  to  all 
our  readers  that  these  characteristics  are  the  very  re- 
verse of  Shakspeare."  But  this  somewhat  begs  the 
question.  The  questions  are,  whether  Shakspeare  was 
not  once  a  rude  beginner  —  a  boy — an  apprentice  in 
his  art  —  whether  his  first  steps  were  not  like  those 
of  other  boys,  feeble  and  indiscreet  —  whether,  differ- 
ing from  all  other  great  writers  of  whom  we  have  any 
precise  knowledge,  he  at  once  sprang  to  maturity  at 
a  bound,  like  the  armed  Minerva,  even  from  his  birth, 

—  and  was  the  mature  master-mind,  at  the  opening, 
which  we  find  him  at  the  crowning  scenes  of  his 
drama  ?    If  we  are  to  be  referred  to  his  masterpieces, 
by  which  to  determine  all  his  performances,  from  the 
first  feeble  and  rude  beginnings  of  his  career,  when- 
ever the  crudities  of  these  imputed  dramas  are  under 
consideration,  there  is  an  end  of  inquiry  and  argument. 
The  question  is,  whether  these  inartificial  character- 
istics of"  Locrine"  —  the  absence  of  proper  discrim- 
ination in  tone  —  the  neglect  of  a  nice  use  of  the 
light  and  shadow — a  disregard  to  the  more  delicate 
effects  arising  from  the  softening  tints — the  ambi- 
tious and  unnatural  elevation  of  the  dialogue,  and  the 
outshaking  of  all  the  school  learning  in  possession  of 
the  writer,  —  whether  these  are  not  just  as  likely  to 
have  been  the  characteristics  of  the  boy  Shakspeare 
as  of  any  other  boy  ?  —  and  when  these  are  found  with 
a  real  presence  of  poetry  —  a  copious  flow  of  language 

—  a  rich  and  generous  fancy  —  and  a  frequent  and 
curious  felicity  in  phrase — all  of  which  appear  in 
"Locrine,"  —  whether,  then,  the  initials  W.  S.,  and 
the  tacit  assumption  by  the  earliest  editors  of  Shak- 
speare's  writings,  do  not  justify  us  in  the  ascription  of 
this  performance  to  his  inexperienced  muse  ?   On  this 
inquiry  let  us  pass  to  other  authorities.    Schlegel  says 
of  "  Locrine :" —  "  The  proofs  of  the  genuineness  of 
this  piece   are  not  altogether  unambiguous;  —  the 
grounds  for  doubt,  on  the  other  hand,  are  entitled  to 
attention.    However,  this   question  is  immediately 
connected  with  that  respecting  '  Titus  Andronicus,' 
and  must  be,  at  the  same  time,  resolved  in  the  affirm- 
ative or  negative." 

Mr.  Knight  dissents  entirely  from  this  opinion ; 
and,  with  all  deference,  we  beg  to  dissent  from  him. 
He  thinks  the  differences  are  as  strikingly  marked 
between  "  Locrine"  and  "  Titus  Andronicus,"  "  as 
between  '  Titus  Andronicus'  and  '  Othello  ;'  "  a  most 
monstrous  heresy,  in  which,  we  suspect,  Mr.  Knight 
will  find  few  readers  of  Shakspeare  to  concur.  He 
objects  to  '•'  Locrine"  as  a  work  of  Shakspeare,  chiefly 


on  these  grounds  ;  namely :  because  the  characters  in 
"  Locrine"  speak  rather  out  of  books,  than  because 
of  their  passions  ;  because  of  the  large  amount  of  clas- 
sical and  mythological  imagery  which  Locrine  em- 
ploys ;  the  pedantry  of  the  author ;  his  frequent  repe- 
tition of  phrases,  in  order  to  be  rhetorical  and  forci- 
ble ;  and  other  like  platitudes,  which  need  no  more 
particular  designation.  These  objections  are  illustra- 
ted by  numerous  examples,  and  by  such  a  studious  ex- 
aggeration of  the  merits  of  "  Titus  Andronicus."  and 
such  an  equally  studied  depreciation  of  the  contrasted 
piece,  that  we  are  constrained  to  feel  that  the  critic's 
ingenuity  is  rather  too  much  at  the  expense  of  his  in- 
genuousness, to  suffer  us  to  let  the  case  go  to  judg- 
ment upon  his  showing  only.  While  it  will  not  be 
difficult  to  concur  with  Mr.  Knight  in  much  of  his 
criticism,  the  points  which  are  most  essential  to  this 
question  are  the  very  ones  which  he  seems  to  have 
considered  in  the  spirit  of  a  partisan.  "  Locrine,"  as 
a  work  of  art,  is  a  very  crude  performance.  It  must 
be  considered  the  work,  not  of  an  artist,  but  an  ap- 
prentice. The  story  is  put  together  clumsily:  the 
characters  are  not  discriminated,  and  the  attempts  at 
the  humorous  are  wretched  in  the  last  degree.  As 
little  may  be  said  for  the  tastes  and  the  proprieties 
of  the  piece  which  offend  us  as  in  "  Titus  Androni- 
cus." Mr.  Knight  doubts  if  it  is  by  a  young  person 
at  all ;  but  the  very  inequalities  which  exist  in  the 
production  —  the  superiority  of  the  versification  —  its 
frequent  power  and  beauty,  so  singularly  in  contrast 
with  the  crude  judgment  of  the  writer,  in  all  that  re- 
lates to  design  and  character, —  seem  to  be  conclu- 
sive  that  the  author  was  a  young  beginner,  fresh  from 
his  classical  studies,  who  had  scarcely  yet  begun  to 
think  for  himself,  and  whose  chief  employment  hith- 
erto had  been  that  naturally  of  all  young  poets  —  the 
acquisition  of  the  arts  of  utterance — an  acquisition 
which  must  inevitably  precede  the  knowledge  of  char- 
acter, and  the  philosophy  which  discriminates  it  hap- 
pily, under  the  lead  of  experience.  Such  a  writer  will 
naturally  elevate  his  school  classics  into  undue  place 
and  inappropriate  importance  in  connexion  with  la- 
bors, which,  if  not  wholly,  are  in  great  measure  for- 
eign to  his  objects.  We  do  not  discover  the  vast  dis- 
similarity which  Mr.  Knight  perceives  bet  ween  "  Lo- 
crine" and  "  Titus  Andronicus."  The  latter  is  un- 
doubtedly the  better  play.  It  is  more  decidedly  a 
work  of  art.  It  is  a  great  improvement,  in  this  re- 
spect, upon  "  Locrine  ;"  but,  if  the  two  plays  be  by 
the  same  hand,  then  was  "  Locrine"  necessary,  as  a 
preparatory  exercise  to  "  Titus  Andronicus."  "She 
latter  has  all  the  advantage  in  propriety  and  power. 
Its  characterization  is  more  perfect ;  its  development 
of  plan  and  purpose  more  unique  and  classical ;  and  its 
variety  of  action,  and  its  regard  to  cadence  in  the 
utterances,  under  various  situations,  of  the  persons 
of  the  drama,  afford  proofs  of  a  large  advance  by  the 
author  of  the  one  over  the  writer  of  the  other  produc- 
tion. But  the  faults  of  the  two  pieces  are  precisely 
of  the  same  description :  consisting,  in  excess,  of 
bloody  and  brutal  moods  ;  an  untamed  and  unmeas- 
ured ferocity ;  a  tedious  sameness  of  tone,  unsparing 
resentments,  and  horrible  purposes,  which  are  left  to- 
tally unrelieved  by  the  redeeming  interposition  of 
softer  fancies  —  of  pity,  or  hope,  or  even  love.  In 
point  of  style  and  expression,  the  resemblance  of 
faults  between  the  two  is  even  more  decided,  and  the 


154 


INTRODUCTION. 


abjections  here,  which  Mr.  Knight  makes  to  "  Lo- 
crine," will  especially  apply  to  the  other  piece.  In 
both  we  have  the  same  frequent  repetition  of  phrase, 
either  to  intensify  the  sound  by  reiteration,  or  to 
patch  out  an  imperfect  line  —  the  same  free  use  of 
heathen  my  thology  —  and  the  same  frequent  employ- 
ment  of  fragmentary  lines  of  Latin,  eitherincorpo  rated 
with,  or  closing  the  paragraph.  The  structure  of  the 
verse  of  •'  Titus  Andronicus"  is  singularly  like  that 
of  "  Locrine."  They  are  both  full  and  sounding,  and 
ample  always  to  overflow  in  the  rhythm.  The  sense 
is  usually  clear  and  transparent,  and  the  energy  of 
the  lines  is  quite  remarkable,  showing  a  strength  and 
resource  in  the  author,  in  one  of  the  first  essentials  of 
his  art,  infinitely  in  advance  of  those  acquisitions  of 
knowledge  and  thought  which  can  only  result  from 
constant  attrition  and  frequent  experience  with  the 
world  of  man.  This  goes  to  prove  the  immature 
years  of  the  author.  The  inequalities  which  he  ex- 
hibits are  precisely  such  as  mark  the  productions  of 
all  youthful  poets  of  genius,  showing  a  more  perfect 
mastery  over  versification  than  thought — showing 
the  utterance  more  malleable  than  the  idea. 

Our  convictions  are  that  "  Locrine"  and  "  Titus 
Andronicus"  are  from  the  same  hand.  No  matter  by 
whom,  the  former  was  the  first  written.  With  all  its 
crudities,  excesses,  and  absurdities,  "  Locrine"  seems 
to  us  to  be  the  legitimate  sire  of  the  other  and  the  bet- 
ter play.  We  believe  them  both  to  be  Shakspeare's, 
and  that  "  Locrine"  was  probably  his  very  first  at- 
tempt in  the  tragic  drama,  when  he  may  have  been 
fifteen  or  sixteen  years  old.  About  the  same  time, 
he  may  have  attempted  the  comic  muse  —  may  have 
written  "  The  London  Prodigal,"  "  The  Widow  of 
Watling  Street,"  and  other  of  those  puny  perform- 
ances, in  which  we  see  nothing  but  the  feeble,  first 
beginnings  of  one  in  his  accidence.  It  is  true  that  — 
mere  versification  alone  excepted  — "  Locrine"  ex- 
hibits few  or  none  of  those  higher  and  finer  traits  of 
genius  which  prove  or  promise  the  master.  It  is  the 
"  'prentice  han' "  alone  that  it  betrays.  But  the  boy, 
even  when  a  genius,  always  begins  to  write  after  a 
copy.  He  must  and  does  usually  write  from  books. 
His  first  years  are  simply  years  of  training,  in  which 
he  learns  little  more  than  the  use  of  his  tools.  Rhyme 
and  the  facilities  of  speech  are  the  chief  objects  of 
attainment  at  this  period ;  are  all  that  he  aims  at, 
and  all  that  he  acquires — that  insensible  growth  of 
the  thought  alone  excepted,  which  seldom  startles  by 
a  too  sudden  exhibition.  In  his  early  practice  at  the 
arts  of  utterance,  he  simply  repeats  the  sentiments 
and  remoulds  the  forms  set  and  prescribed  by  other 
hands,  precisely  as  the  schoolboy,  in  writing,  copies 
after  engraved  copies.  It  is  only  when  he  becomes 
a  sufficient  master  of  versification,  that  he  can  pos- 
sibly look  into  the  stores  of  his  own  thought,  and 
shape  into  proper  language  the  more  original  idea. 
It  is  only  when  his  tongue  becomes  sufficiently  freed, 
that  he  begins  to  speak  from  his  own  experience  and 
heart.  This  is  a  common  history.  Who  predicates, 
ordinarily,  of  the  first  exercises  of  the  boy-poet,  the 
heights  of  fame  which  his  future  wing  will  reach  ? 

But  "  Locrine,"  though  unworthy  of  the  master 
Shakspeare— though  decidedly  inferior  to  "  Titus  An 
dronicus,"  which  it  most  resembles  —  though  gross- 
ly deformed  by  an  under-current  of  vulgarity  intend 
ed  for  humor,  and  which  affords  us  no  glimpses  what- 


ever of  that  ripe  excellence  to  which  we  owe  Sir  John 
Falstaff  and  the  appropriate  circle  which  revolve 
around  that  great  centre  of  wit  and  merriment  —  is 
yet  not  without  certain  merits  of  poetry  which  we 
should  not  overlook.  It  possesses  some  characteris- 
tics which  remind  us  of  Shakspeare,  however  faintly. 
We  find  these  in  the  usually  abrupt  manner  in  which 
the  persons  of  the  drama  enter  upon  the  business  of 
the  scene ;  in  the  noble  comparisons  and  figures  which 
suggest  themselves,  as  if  without  effort  or  premedi- 
tation, to  the  speaker  ;  in  the  presence  of  an  overflow- 
ing and  exuberant  imagination ;  in  the  occasional  reflec- 
tion which  the  contemplative  mood  acknowledges, 
even  in  the  moment  of  action  and  performance  ;  and 
in  that  genius  which  frequently  snatches  its  grace  be- 
yond the  reach  of  art,  in  the  felicitous  expression,  the 
happy  phrase,  the  bold  figure,  the  delicate  and  unique 
fancy.  Mr.  Knight,  in  his  hostility  to  this  play,  has 
been  pleased  to  quote  largely  of  those  passages  which 
betray  the  feeble  hand  and  the  crude  and  unenlight- 
ened taste.  Many  of  his  instances  of  repetition  in 
phrase,  which  he  assumes  to  have  been  deliberate  re- 
sults of  judgment,  are  really  only  the  makeshifts  with 
which  the  inexperienced  framer  of  blank  verse  patched 
out  his  halting  heroics.  Others  are  examples  of  bad 
taste  and  prurient  metaphor.  Some  of  these  exam- 
ples are  chiefly  reprehensible  as  they  are  detached  by 
the  critic  from  their  appropriate  connexion,  and  hud- 
dled, by  him,  into  association  with  other  similarly- 
conceived  passages — the  whole,  together,  forming  a 
formidable  array,  which  would  scarcely  prove  so  of- 
fensive, if  not  thus  obtruded,  in  masses,  upon  the 
reader.  As  Mr.  Knight  has  not  scrupled  to  select  the 
objectionable  specimens,  it  will  not  be  denied  us  the 
privilege  of  detaching  a  few  more  favorable  samples 
from  the  same  source,  which,  to  us,  indicate  resources 
of  fancy  and  power  such  as  might  well,  under  good 
training,  ripen  into  excellence.  We  need  not  discrim- 
inate the  passages  we  select,  or  specially  designate  in 
what  their  merit  consists.  We  leave  that  to  the  read- 
er. Some  are  given  as  specimens  of  a  versification 
equally  bold,  sweet,  and  transparent  —  are  samples 
of  a  dawning  and  vigorous  fancy;  others,  again,  com- 
mend themselves  by  the  dignity  and  grace  of  the 
style  and  manner ;  and  others,  yet  again,  for  that 
prompt  entrance  upon  the  action,  with  the  energy  of 
a  thought  already  prepared  for  all  its  interests,  which 
so  remarkably  distinguishes  the  more  earnest  portions 
of  Shakspeare's  writings.  We  proceed  to  our  exam- 
ples. 

Brutus  is  about  to  die,  exhausted  by  age.    He 
speaks :  — 

"These  never-daunted  arms, 

That  oft  have  quelled  the  courage  of  my  foes, 
Now  yield  to  death,  o'erlaid  with  crooked  age, 
Devoid  of  strength  and  of  their  proper  force ; 
Even  at  the  Italy  cedar,  worn  with  yeart, 
That  far  abroad  her  dainty  odor  Throws, 
'Mongst  all  the  daughters  of  proud  Lebanon." 

Estrild,  the  spouse  of  Humber,  is  ravished  with  the 
natural  beauties  of  Albion  :  — 

"  The  airy  hills  enclosed  with  shady  groves, 
The  groves  replenished  with  sweet-chirping  birds, 
The  birds  resounding  heavenly  melody  — 
Are  equal  to  the  groves  of  Thessaly ; 
Where  Phabui,  with  the  learned  ladies  nine, 
Delight  themselves  with  music's  harmony, 


INTRODUCTION. 


155 


And,  from  the  moisture  of  the  mountain-tops 

The  silent  springs  dance  down  with  murmuring  streams, 

And  water  all  the  ground  with  crystal  waves. 

The  gentle  blasts  of  Eurus'  modest  wind, 

Moving  the  pattering  leaves  of  Sylvan's  woods, 

Do  equal  it  with  Tempo's  paradise  ; 

And  thus  consorted  all  to  one  eft'ect, 

Do  ?nake  me  think  these  are  the  happy  isles, 

Most  fortunate,  if  Humber  may  them  win." 

Humber,  the  invader,  declares  the  sources  of  his  hope 
in  conquering  the  Trojans  :  — 

"  Where  resolution  leads  the  way, 

And  courage  follows  with  emboldened  face, 
Fortune  can  never  use  her  tyranny  I  — 
For  valiantness  is  like  unto  a  rock 
That  standeth  on  the  waves  of  ocean, 
Which,  though  the  billows  beat,"  &c. 

Albanact  is  reported  as  approaching  with  a  powerful 
army.  Humber  replies  with  promising  — 

"  Entertainment  good  enough,  — 

Yea,  fit  for  those  that  are  our  enemies. 

For  we'll  receive  them  at  the  lance's  point,"  &c. 

Hubba,  the  son  of  the  invader,  betrays  a  tone  and 
spirit  that  remind  us  of  Harry  Hotspur,  and  the 
prince,  his  emulous  rival.  When  told  of  Albanact's 
approach  — 

"  When  as  the  morning  shows  hi*  cheerful  face, 
A  nd  Lucifer,  mounted  upon  his  steed, 
Urings  in  the  chariot  of  the  golden  sun, 
I'll  meet  young  Albanact  in  open  field, 
A  nd  crack  my  lance  upon  his  burgonet." 

Humber  says :  — 

"  Spoke  like  a  warlike  knight,"  &c. 

"  Therefore,  to-morrow,  ere  fair  Titan  shine, 
And  bashful  Eos,  messenger  of  light, 
Expels  the  liquid  sleep  from  out  men's  eyes, 
Thou  shall,"  &c. 

The  two  preceding  passages  which  we  have  italicized 
are  not  only  beautiful  in  phrase,  but  seem  to  us  to 
be  full  of  the  Shaksperian  transparency  and  fancy. — 
A  captain,  about  to  impress  a  cobbler  for  the  wars, 
finds  him  merrily  singing  at  his  board.  The  manner 
of  the  speech  which  he  utters,  pausing  in  the  action 
to  indulge  in  the  reflection  which  the  scene  provokes, 
is  also  eminently  that  of  Shakspeare  :  — 

"  The  poorest  state  is  farthest  from  annoy  !  — 
How  merrily  he  sitteth,"  &c. 

Here  follows  just  such  a  picture  as  Shakspeare  fre- 
quently draws  —  in  which,  in  the  •progress  of  the  ordi- 
nary narrative,  the  speaker  elevates  into  poetry  his 
statements  of  the  fact,  by  a  graphic  delineation  of 
what  is  conspicuous  in  his  group :  — 

"  After  we  passed  the  groves  of  Caledon, 
We  did  behold  the  straggling  Scythians'  camp, 
Replete  with  men,  stored  with  munition. 
There  might  we  see  the  valiant-minded  knights 
Fetching  careers  along  the  spacious  plains  ;- 
Humber  and  Hubba,  armed  in  azure  blue, 
Mounted  upon  their  coursers  white  as  snow." 

How  well,  simply,  and  becomingly,  is  the  following 
order  given  !  — 

"  Hubba,  go  take  a  cornet  of  our  horse, 
As  many  lancers,  and  light-armed  knights, 
As  may  suffice  for  such  an  enterprise, 
And  place  them  in  the  grove  of  Caledon ; 


With  these,  when  as  the  skirmish  doth  increase, 
Retire  thou  from  the  shelter  of  the  wood, 
And  set  upon  the  weakened  Trojans'  backs  ;  — 
For  policy,  [when]  joined  with  chivalry, 
Can  never  be  put  back  from  victory." 

These  speeches  are  wholly  free  from  stiltishness, 
which  is  the  besetting  infirmity  of  the  author  of  "  Lo- 
crine"  —  his  wild,  un pruned  taste  and  excess  of  ardor 
usually  spoiling  his  best  passages.  But  such  exag- 
gerations ordinarily  deform  the  writings  of  all  young 
authors,  particularly  when  the  fancy  is  abundant.  The 
openings  of  many  of  the  speeches  in  "  Locrine"  fre- 
quently remind  us  of  the  manner  of  Shakspeare,  and 
the  manner  is  one  of  the  most  important  matters  in 
such  a  discussion.  His  hero  enters  upon  the  scene  con- 
scious fully  of  his  situation,  its  exigencies,  and  what 
is  due  to  his  own  character;  and  his  speech  usually 
begins  generously  and  nobly.  Thus  Hubba,  after  a 
severe  fight  with  Albanact,  enters,  exclaiming  — 

"  How  bravely  this  young  Briton,  Albanact, 
Darteth  abroad  the  thunderbolts  of  war,"  &c. 

Thus,  for  a  few  lines,  what  is  spoken  is  at  once  for- 
cible, appropriate,  and  excellently  given  ;  but  soon 
the  speaker,  in  the  very  affluence  of  the  poet,  begins 
to  multiply  his  images,  to  pile  figure  upon  figure,  and, 
without  enlarging  or  advancing  the  idea,  to  cumber  it 
with  unnecessary  phrases.  We  see,  from  the  begin- 
ning of  the  speech,  that  the  author  knows  what 
should  be  said  in  the  place,  but  not  how  much,  or  in 
exactly  what  language.  These  are  matters  that  ex- 
perience alone  can  teach.  —  Albanact  appears,  fatally 
hurt.  Here,  again,  is  a  felicitous  beginning  of  his 
speech  —  at  once  opening  upon  the  obvious  point  of 
the  subject,  and  in  appropriate  language  :  — 

"Injurious  Fortune,  hast  thou  crossed  me  thus?  — 
Thus,  in  the  morning  of  my  victories  — 
Thus,  in  the  prime  of  my  felicity, 
To  cut  me  off  by  such  hard  overthrow  ! 
Hadst  thou  no  time  thy  rancor  to  declare, 
But  in  the  spring  of  all  my  dignities  ?" 

So  far,  the  speech  reads  well.  But  what  follows  is 
mere  raving,  the  result  of  abundant  fancy  in  the  au- 
thor, as  yet  ungoverned  by  judgment  and  unrestrained 
by  taste.  It  is  in  his  very  abundance  that  he  wastes 
and  impairs  his  possessions. —  Corineius  rebukes  the 
idle  sorrow  that  weeps  for  Albanact,  without  seeking 
to  revenge  him  :  — 

"  In  vain  you  sorrow,"  &c. 

"  He  loves  not  most  that  doth  lament  the  most; 

But  he  that  seeks  t'avenge  the  injury. 

Think  you  to  quell  the  enemy's  warlike  train 

With  childish  sobs  and  womanish  laments  ? 

Unsheath  your  swords,"  &c. 

Examples  of  the  fancy,  rising  from  and  adorning  the 
subject,  are  frequent,  even  in  the  crudest  passages. 
Here,  speaking  of  the  resources  of  his  province,  Cam 
her  describes  — 

"  the  fields  of  martial  Cambria, 

Close  by  the  boisterous  Iscan's  silver  streams, 
Where  lightfoot  fairies  skip  from  lank  to  bank, 
Full,"  &c. 

The  speech  of  Humber  at  the  opening  of  Scene  3  in 
Act  IV.,  full  of  bombast  as  it  is,  reminds  us,  in  one  of 
its  figures,  of  the  famous  passage  in  "  Macbeth," 


156 


INTRODUCTION. 


where  the  bloody  hands  of  the  murderer  promise  to 
incarnardine  the  sea — 

"  Making  the  green  one  red." 

A  moment  after,  in  a  figure  of  vision,  he  sees  the  ap- 
proaching conflict,  and  falsely  predicts  his  own  suc- 
cesses :  — 

"Methinks  I  fee  both  armies  in  the  field  !  — 
The  broken  lances  climb  the  crystal  skies : 
Some  headless  lie ;  some  breathless  on  the  ground, 
And  every  place  is  strewed  with  carcasses  ! 
Behold,  the  grass  hath  hit  Ms  pleasant  green."  &c. 

The  soliloquy  of  Hubba  will  not  fail,  in  its  felicity  of 
comparison,  its  sweetness  and  force  of  language,  and 
the  peculiarity  of  some  of  its  lines,  which  we  have 
italicized,  to  remind  the  reader  very  sensibly  of  Shak- 
speare :  — 

"  Let  come  what  will,  I  mean  to  bear  it  out, 
And  either  live  with  glorious  victory, 
Or  die  with  fame  renowned  for  chivalry ! 
He  is  not  worthy  of  the  honeycomb, 
That  shuns  the  hive  because  the  bee  hath  stings  ! 
TTtat  Itkes  me  best  that  in  not  got  with  ease, 
Which  thousand  dangers  do  accompany  : 
For  nothing  can  dismay  our  regal  mind, 
Which  aims  at  nothing  but  a  golden  crown." 

Beaten,  a  fugitive,  and  dying  of  famine,  Humber  says : 

"  Thou  great  commander  of  the  starry  sky, 
That  guid'st  the  life  of  every  mortal  wight, 
From  the  enclosures  of  the  fleeting  clouds 
Rain  down  some  food." 

There  is  a  beauty  in  the  following  passage  which,  it 
is  highly  probable,  did  not  escape  the  sight  of  Mil- 
ton, who  seems  to  have  read  this  play  with  attention. 
—  Locrine  describes  the  secret  spot  where  he  has 
concealed  Estrild :  — 

"  Nigh  Deucolitum,  by  the  pleasant  Lee, 
Where  brackish  Thamis  slides  with  silver  streams, 
Making  a  breach  into  the  grassy  downs, 
A  curious  arch  of  costly  marble  wrought 
Hath  Locrine  frame'd  underneath  the  ground ; 
The  walls  whereof  garnished  with  diamonds, 
With  opals,  rubies,  glistering  emeralds, 
And  interlaced  with  sunbright  carbuncles, 
Lighten  the  room  with  artificial  day : 
And  from  the  Lee,  with  water-flowing  pipes 
The  moisture  is  derived  into  this  arch, 
Where  I  have  placed  fair  Estrild  secretly. 
Thither  efteoons,  accompanied  by  my  page, 
I  visit  covertly  my  heart's  desire, 
Without  suspicion  of  the  meanest  eye, 
For  love  aboundeth  still  with  policy." 

Of  this  passage  Mr.  Knight  remarks — we  need  not 
say  how  unjustly —  that  it  is  the  only  example  in  the 
play  approaching  to  something  like  natural  and  ap- 
propriate language.  We  could  show  many  quite  as 
appropriate  and  natural,  and  more  noble.  We  pro- 
ceed with  our  illustrations. —  Humber,  describing  the 
terrible  state  in  which  he  has  lived  as  a  fugitive,  says 
forcibly :  — 

"  Caves  were  my  beds,  and  stones  my  pillow-biers, 
Fear  was  my  sleep,  and  horror  was  my  dream." 

Locrine,  reproached  with  his  lusts  by  Thrasymachus, 
is  told  — 

"  If  princes  stain  their  glorious  dignity 
With  ugly  spots  of  monstrous  infamy, 


They  lose  their  former  estimation, 

And  throw  themselves  into  a  hell  of  hate." 

Guendeline's  lament,  though  obscure  and  disfigured 
by  instances  of  unformed  and  unlicensed  taste,  is  not 
without  its  appropriate  beauties :  — 

"  Ye  gentle  winds,  that,  with  your  modest  blasts, 
Pass  through  the  circuit  of  the  heavenly  vault, 
Enter  the  clouds  unto  the  throne  of  Jove, 
And  bear  my  prayer  to  his  all-hearing  ears  !  — 
For  Locrine  hath  forsaken  Guendeline, 
And  learned  to  love  proud  number's  concubine. 
Ye  happy  sprites  that,  in  the  concave  sky, 
With  pleasant  joy,  enjoy  your  sweetest  love, 
Shed  forth  those  tears  with  me,  which  then  you  shed, 
When  first  you  wooed  your  ladies  to  your  wills  !  — 
Those  tears  are  fittest  for  my  woful  case, 
Since  Locrine  shuns  my  nothing-pleasant  face." 

The  homeliness  of  the  figure,  in  the  hands  of  this  au- 
thor, as  in  those  of  Shakspeare,  not  unfrequently  illus- 
trates successfully  the  most  elevated  topic  ;  thus :  — 

"  Alas !  my  lord,  the  horse  will  run  amain, 
When  as  the  spur  doth  gall  him  to  the  bone  : 
Jealousy,  Locrine,  hath  a  wicked  sting." 

Events  in  the  natural  world  are  made  to  shadow  forth 
happily  the  crises  in  the  affairs  of  man  :  — 

"  Behold,  the  circuit  of  the  azure  sky 
Throws  forth  sad  throbs,  and  grievously  suspires, 
Prejudicating  Locrine's  overthrow  I" 

Here  follow  several  fragments  remarkable  for  the 
freshness  and  felicity  of  phrase,  warmth  of  fancy, 
and  occasional  stern  force  of  the  figure  they  exhibit. 
We  may  add,  that,  considered  through  the  proper 
medium,  they  do  not  unfrequently  or  doubtfully  de- 
note that  riper  genius  by  which  their  crude  virtues 
might  have  been  rendered  perfect.  Detailing  the  evil 
omens  that  accumulate  at  the  prospect  of  civil  war, 
the  ghost  of  Corineius  tells  us,  among  other  things, 
of — 

"  The  wat'ry  ladies,  and  the  lightfoot  fawns, 

And  all  the  rabble  of  the  woody  nymphs, 

Trembling,  all  hide  themselves,"  &c. 

Parting  with  Estrild,  after  his  overthrow,  and  when 
about  to  commit  suicide,  Locrine  speaks  of  her  as  — 

"  Beauty's  paragon, 

Framed  in  the  front  of  forlorn  miseries." 

Estrild,  preparing  to  die  also,  says  of  the  world :  — 

"What  else  are  all  things  that  this  globe  contains, 
But  a  confused  chaos  of  mishaps  ? 
Wherein,  as  in  a  glass,  we  plainly  see 
That  all  our  life  is  but  a  tragedy." 

Thrasymachus,  when  he  discovers  the  bodies  of  the 
two,  exclaims  — 

"Nor  doth  thy  husband,  lovely  Guendeline, 
That  wonted  was  to  guide  our  starless  steps, 
Enjoy  this  light :  see  where  he  murdered  lies  ! 
And  by  him  lies  his  lovely  paramour, 
Fair  Estrild,  gore"d  with  a  dismal  sword  — 
And,  as  it  seems,  both  murdered  by  themselves, 
Clasping  each  other  in  their  feebled  arms, 
With  loving  zeal  —  as  if,  for  [qu. :  in?]  company, 
Their  uncontented  corses  [ghosts?]  were  content 
To  pass  foul  Styx." 

Without  altering  much  of  this  matter,  or  adding 
much  to  its  idea,  the  mature  Shakspeare  —  the  genius 


INTRODUCTION. 


157 


grown  —  would  have  made  it  equally  chaste,  appro- 
priate, and  beautiful.  —  Sabren  apostrophizes  the  — 

"  Dryadgs  and  lightfoot  Satyri  — 

The  gracious  fairies,  who,  at  eventide, 

Their  closets  leave,  with  heavenly  beauty  stored, 

And  on  their  shoulders  spread  their  golden  locks,"  <fcc. 

She  says,  again,  failing  to  commit  suicide  ;  — 

*  Her  virgin  hand  too  weak  to  penetrate 
The  bulwark  of  her  breast" — 

and,  apostrophizing  Death  — 

"  Hard-hearted  Death,  that,  when  the  wretched  call, 
Art  farthest  off,  and  seldom  hear'st  at  all ; 
But,  in  the  midst  of  Fortune's  good  success, 
Uncalled  comes  and  shears  our  life  in  twain  !"  — 

we  are  reminded  of  Milton,  who  seems  clearly  to 
have  imitated  the  passage,  while  improving  it :  — 

"  But  the  fair  guerdpn  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears, 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life." 

Let  the  reader  look  to  the  passage  in  the  second 
scene  of  Act  III.,  where  Thrasymachus  reports  the  de- 
feat and  death  of  Albanact,  and  observe  how  few  and 
insignificant  would  be  the  alterations  which  are  neces- 
sary to  make  this  simple  statement  of  facts  a  noble 
and  poetical  narrative  of  Shakspeare.  Let  him  turn 
again  to  the  opening  speech  of  Humber,  in  the  com- 
mencement of  the  second  act,  and  note  the  lines  of 
frequent  beauty,  and  the  figures  at  once  noble  and 
appropriate,  which  are  found  amid  numerous  crudi- 
ties. How  happily  is  courage  counselled  to  perseve- 
rance by  the  comparison  of  the  snail,  who,  feeble  and 
crawling  slowly,  at  length  ascends  the  loftiest  heights, 
scaling  the  walls  of  the  stateliest  castle  !  —  and  the 
proud  boast  of  the  Scythian  emperor,  that  he  — 

"  Leads  Fortune  tied  [up]  in  a  chain  of  gold, 
Constraining  her  to  yield  unto  his  will, 
And  grace  him  with  her  regal  diadem." 

Even  in  the  ludicrous  portions  of  the  piece,  those 
which  are  mistakenly  designed  for  the  humorous,  we 
discern  glimpses  of  a  conception,  that,  with  a  full 
development  of  the  powers  of  expression  on  the  part 
of  the  author,  might  have  been  reasonably  expected 
to  arrive  at  a  birth  equally  legitimate  and  excellent. 
Thus,  in  the  battle-scene  where  Albanact  is  beaten 
and  slain,  Strumbo,  who  is  the  buffoon  of  the  piece, 
feigns  death  on  the  field,  as  Falstaff  does  in  a  like 
situation,  in  order  to  escape  danger ;  and  is  lamented 
by  his  apprentice  in  a  characteristic  howl,  which 
rouses  the  counterfeit  as  effectually  as  does  the  prom- 
ise of  Hal  to  have  the  fat  knight  disembowelled  rouse 
Falstaff.  In  the  latter  instance  the  conception  finds 
appropriate  development,  —  the  importance  of  the 
character  concerned  being  duly  raised,  so  as  to  in- 
terest us,  even  in  his  cowardice;  —  an  advantage 
which  Strumbo  does  not  possess  —  to  say  nothing  of 
that  happy  employment  of  language  —  playful,  adroit, 
accomplished  —  in  Falstaff,  which  could  only  have 
been  acquired  by  long  practice,  and  the  experience 
of  maturest  years. 

We  give,  in  a  cluster,  several  examples  of  that  bold 
ind  somewhat  abrupt,  but  truly  dramatic  manner  of 
opening  speech  and  scene,  in  which  this  play  abounds, 
and  which  distinguishes  the  manner  of  Shakspeare  : 


"  What !  is  the  tiger  started  from  his  cave  I" 
Again :  — 

"  What  basilisk  hath  hatched  in  this  place  r 
Again :  — 

"  Was  ever  land  so  fruitless  as  this  land?" 
Again  :  — 

"  Thus,  from  the  fury  of  Bellona's  broils, 
With  sound  of  drum  and  trumpet's  melody 
The  Britain  king  returns  triumphantly." 

The  maturer  writer  would  have  said :  — 

"  The  British  king  triumphantly  returns." 
Again :  — 

"  Now  am  I  guarded  with  a  host  of  men, 
Whose  haughty  courage  is  invincible  !" 

Again  :  — 

"  Thus  are  we  come,  victorious  conquerors, 
Unto  the  flowing  current's  silver  streams, 
Which,  in  memorial  of  our  victory, 
Shall  be,"  &c. 

We  finish  our  examples  with  the  speech  of  Guende- 
line  already  referred  to,  and  which  is  the  proper  con- 
clusion of  the  drama.  We  have  indicated  this  speech 
as  an  instance  of  transparent,  dignified  verse,  highly 
appropriate  to  the  party  and  the  occasion,  and  as  de- 
cidedly in  Shakspeare's  manner.  At  all  events,  it  will 
not  be  difficult  to  find  the  strong  parallelism  which 
exists,  in  tone,  manner,  and  general  sentiment,  be- 
tween it  and  the  closing  speech  in  "  Titus  Audroni- 
cus."  We  place  the  two  in  opposition,  that  the  read- 
er may  more  readily  judge  for  himself  of  the  propriety 
of  these  comparisons  between  things  acknowledged, 
as  wholes,  to  be  unequal :  — 

Guendeline.  One  mischief  follows  on  another's  neck  ! 
Who  would  have  thought  so  young  a  maid  as  she, 
With  such  a  courage  would  have  sought  her  death  t 
And — for  because  this  river  was  the  place 
Where  little  Sabren  resolutely  died — 
Sabren,  for  ever,  shall  this  same  be  called. 
And,  as  for  Locrine,  our  deceased  spouse, 
Because  he  was  the  son  of  mighty  Brute, 
To  whom  we  owe  our  country,  lives,  and  goods, 
He  shall  be  buried  in  a  stately  tomb, 
Close  by  his  ag€d  father  Brutus'  bones, 
With  such  great  pomp  and  great  solemnity 
As  well  beseems  so  brave  a  prince  as  he. 
Let  Estrild  lie  without  the  shallow  [shadowy  ?]  vault, 
Without  the  honor  due  unto  the  dead, 
Because  she  was  the  author  of  this  war. 
Retire,  brave  followers,  unto  Troynovant, 
Where  we  will  celebrate  these  exequies, 
And  place  young  Locrine  in  his  father's  tomb. 

Even  the  topics  in  the  speech  from  "  Titus  Androni- 
cus"  are  singularly  like  those  of  the  preceding.  Here 
it  follows :  — 

Lucius.  Some  loving  friends  convey  the  emperor  hence. 
And  give  him  burial  in  his  father's  grave : 
My  father,  and  Lavinia,  shall  forthwith 
Be  closed  in  our  household's  monument 
As  for  that  heinous  tiger,  Tamora, 
No  funeral  rite,  nor  man  in  mournful  weeds, 
No  mournful  bell  shall  ring  her  burial ; 
But  throw  her  forth  to  beasts  and  birds  of  prey : 


158 


INTRODUCTION. 


Her  life  was  beast-like,  and  deroid  of  pity; 
And  being  so,  shall  have  like  want  of  pity. 
See  justice  done  to  Aaron,  that  damned  Moor, 
By  whom  our  heavy  haps  had  their  beginning : 
Then,  afterward,  to  order  well  the  state  ; 
That  like  events  may  ne'er  it  ruinate. 

We  conclude  by  repeating  our  concurrence  with  the 
German  and  our  disagreement  with  the  English  crit- 
ics. We  hold  this  play  of  "  Locrine"  to  be  from  the 
same  hand  with  that  of  "  Titus  Andronicus,"  and  we 
believe  that  hand  to  have  been  Shakspeare's. 

Enough  on  this  head.  It  now  only  remains  to  say 
something  of  the  old  tradition  which  forms  the  sub- 
ject of  "  Locrine."  This  seems  to  have  been  a  fa- 
vorite one  with  the  early  poets.  The  story  appears 
in  the  first  pages  of  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  whence 
it  passes  as  an  improbable  legend  into  most  of  the 
subsequent  historians.  In  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth  it 
occupies  some  thirty  pages.  Milton,  in  his  "  History 
of  England,"  condenses  it  sufficiently  to  enable  us  to 
use  it  here  :  — 

"  After  this,  Brutus,  in  a  chosen  place,  builds  Troja 
Nova,  changed  in  time  to  Trinovautum,  now  London, 
and  began  to  enact  laws,  Heli  being  then  high-priest 
in  Judea  ;  and,  having  governed  the  whole  isle  twen- 
ty-four years,  died,  and  was  buried  in  his  new  Troy. 
His  three  sons,  Locrine,  Albanact,  and  Camber,  divide 
the  land  by  consent.  Locrine  has  the  middle  part, 
Lcegria  ;  Camber  possessed  Cambria,  or  Wales ;  Al- 
banact, Albania,  now  Scotland.  But  he  in  the  end, 
by  Number,  king  of  the  Huns,  who  with  a  fleet  in- 
vaded that  land,  was  slain  in  fight,  and  his  people 
drove  back  into  Lcegria.  Locrine  and  his  brother  go 
out  against  Humber ;  who,  now  marching  onward, 
was  by  them  defeated,  and  in  a  river  drowned,  which 
to  this  day  retains  his  name.  Among  the  spoils  of 
his  camp  and  navy  were  found  certain  young  maids, 
and  Estrildis  above  the  rest,  passing  fair,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  king  in  Germany ;  from  whence  Humber,  as 
he  went  wasting  the  seacoast,  had  led  her  captive  ; 
whom  Locrine,  —  though  before  contracted  to  the 
daughter  of  Corineus  —  resolves  to  marry.  But  being 
forced  and  threatened  by  Corineus,  whose  authority 
and  power  he  feared,  Guendolen  the  daughter  he 
yields  to  marry,  but  in  secret  loves  the  other :  and 
ofttimes  retiring,  as  to  some  private  sacrifice,  through 
vaults  and  passages  made  under  ground,  and  seven 
years  thus  enjoying  her,  had  by  her  a  daughter 
equally  fair,  whose  name  was  Sabra.  But  when  once 
his  fear  was  off,  by  the  death  of  Corineus,  not  con- 
tent with  secret  enjoyment,  divorcing  Guendolen,  he 
made  Estrildis  now  his  queen.  Guendolen,  all  in 
rage,  departs  into  Cornwall,  where  Madan,  the  son 
she  had  by  Locrine,  was  hitherto  brought  up  by  Co- 
rineus,  his  grandfather ;  and  gathering  an  army  of 
her  father's  friends  and  subjects,  gives  battle  to  her 
husband  by  the  river  Sture;  wherein  Locrine,  shot 
with  an  arrow,  ends  his  life.  But  not  so  ends  the 
fury  of  Guendolen ;  for  Estrildis,  and  her  daughter 
Sabra,  she  throws  into  a  river :  and,  to  leave  a  monu- 
ment of  her  revenge,  proclaims  that  the  stream  be 
thenceforth  called  after  the  damsel's  name,  •which, 
by  length  of  time,  is  now  changed  to  Sabrina  or  Sev- 
ern."—  Milton  uses  the  subject  in  his  "  Comus  :"— 

"  There  is  a  gentle  nymph  not  far  from  hence, 
That  with  moist  curb  sways  the  smooth  Severn  stream : 
Sabrina  is  her  p«™p.  a  virgin  pore ; 


Whilome  she  was  the  daughter  of  Locrine, 

That  had  the  sceptre  from  his  father  Brute. 

She,  guiltless  damsel,  flying  the  mad  pursuit 

Of  her  enraged  stepdame,  Guendolen, 

Commended  her  fair  innocence  to  the  flood. 

That  stayed  her  flight  with  his  cross-flowing  couise." 

It  was  again  employed  in  the  "  Mirror  of  Magis- 
trates," and  by  Spenser  in  his  "  Faerie  Queen."  Mi- 
chael Drayton,  in  his  "  Polyolbion,"  also  makes  it 
the  subject  of  his  muse  in  a  chant  of  fifty  lines  ;  and 
as  he  is  a  poet  but  little  read  —  a  sturdy  native  muse 
—  who  deserves  more  consideration  than  he  finds,  we 
are  tempted  to  embrace  his  treatment  of  the  story 
in  this  connexion  :  — 

"  Oh,  ever-during  heir 

Of  Sabrine,  Locrine's  child  (who  of  her  life  bereft, 
Her  ever-living  name  to  thee,  fair  river,  left) — 
Brute's  first-begotten  son,  whom  Gwendolin  did  wed ; 
(But  soon  th'inconstant  lord  abandoned  her  bed, 
Through  his  unchaste  desire  for  beauteous  Elstred's  love). 
Now  that  which  most  of  all  her  mighty  heart  did  move, 
Her  father,  Cornwall's  duke,  great  Corineius  dead, 
Was,  by  the  lustful  king,  unjustly  banished. 
When  she,  who,  to  that  time,  still  with  a  smoothed  brow, 
Had  seemed  to  bear  the  breach  of  Locrine's  former  vow, 
Perceiving  still  her  wrongs  insufferable  were ; 
Grown  big  with  the  revenge  which  her  full  breast  did  bear. 
And  aided  to  the  birth  with  every  little  breath  — 
(Alone  she  being  left  the  spoil  of  love  and  death, 
In  labor  of  her  grief,  outrageously  distract 
The  utmost  of  her  spleen  on  her  false  lord  to  act)  — 
She  first  implores  their  aid,  to  hate  him  whom  she  found ; 
Whose  hearts  unto  the  depth  she  had  not  left  to  sound. 
To  Cornwall  then  she  sends  (her  country)  for  supplies  ; 
Which,  all  at  once,  in  arms,  with  Gwendolin  arise. 
Then  with  her  warlike  power  her  husband  she  pursued. 
Whom  his  unlawful  love  too  vainly  did  delude. 
The  fierce  and  jealous  queen,  then  void  of  all  remorse, 
As  great  in  power  as  spirit,  while  he  neglects  her  force, 
Him  suddenly  surprised,  and  from  her  ireful  heart, 
All  pity  clean  exiled  (whom  nothing  could  convert), 
The  son  of  mighty  Brute  bereaved  of  his  life  :  — 
Amongst  the  Britons  here,  the  first  intestine  strife, 
Since  they  were  put  a-land  upon  this  promised  shore. 
Then  crowning  Madan  king,  whom  she  to  Locrine  bore, 
And  those  which  saved  hia  soil  to  his  obedience  bought : 
Not  so  with  blood  sufficed — immediately  she  sought 
The  mother  and  the  child ;  whose  beauty  when  she  saw. 
Had  not  her  heart  been  flint,  had  had  the  power  to  draw 
A  spring  of  pitying  tears ;  when,  dropping  liquid  pearl 
Before  the  cruel  king,  the  lady  and  the  girl 
Upon  their  tender  knees  begged  mercy ! — Wo  for  thee, 
Fair  Elstred,  that  thou  shouldst  thy  fairer  Sabrine  see, 
As  she  should  thee  behold,  the  prey  to  her  stern  rage 
Whom  kingly  Locrine's  death  sufficed  not  to  assuage  !  — 
Who  from  the  bord'ring  clifls  thee  with  thy  mother  cast 
Into  thy  christened  flood,  the  whilst  the  rocks  aghast 
Resounded  with  your  shrieks  ;  till  in  a  deadly  dream 
Your  corses  were  dissolved  into  that  crystal  stream, 
Your  curls  to  curlgd  waves,  which  plainly  still  appear, 
The  same  in  water  now.  that  once  in  locks  they  were : 
And  as  ye  wont  to  clip  each  other's  necks  before, 
Ye  now,  with  liquid  arms,  embrace  the  wand'ring  shore." 

Spenser's  narrative  may  be  found  in  the  tenth  canto 
of  his  "  Faerie  Queen,"  including  half  a  dozen  stan- 
zas from  xiv,  to  xi.  The  various  treatment  of  the 
subject  by  these  several  writers  deserves  the  consid- 
eration of  all  those  who  would  again  employ  the 
theme,  which,  by-the-way,  is  but  little  impaired  by 
use,  however  frequent,  for  the  purposes  of  the  future 
dramatist. 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  LOCRINE, 


THE  ELDEST  SON  OF  KING  BRUTUS, 


Mers  0/Brutus. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED, 

TROJANS  OR  BRITONS. 

BRUTUS,  King  of  Britain. 

LOCRINE,  his  eldest  son,  and  successor. 

AMBER,      ;  younger  sons  of  Brutus. 
ALBANACT, ) 
CORINEIUS, 
ASSARACUS, 
THRASYMACHUS,  son  of  Corineius. 
MADAN,  son  of  Locrine  and  Guendeline. 
DEBON,  a  veteran  officer. 
STRUMBO,  a  cobblei-.. 
TROMPART,  his  apprentice. 
OLIVER,  an  old  man. 
WILLIAM,  his  son. 
Ghosts  of  Albanact  and  Corineius. 

Captain,  Page,  Soldiers,  S(C. 

HUNS  OR  SCYTHIANS,  OTHERWISE  NORTHMEN. 

H UMBER,  the  Chief. 
HUBBA,  his  son. 

SEGAR,          )  Captains. 
THRASSIER,  ) 

Soldiers,  4-c. 

WOMEN. 

GUENDELINE,  daughter  of  Corineius,  and  wife  of  Lo- 
crine. 

ESTRILD,  wife  of  Humber,  and  afterward  mistress  of 
Locrine. 

SABREN,  her  daughter  by  Locrine. 

DOROTHY,    I  ^^  o/  Strumbo- 

MARGERY,  ) 

ATE,  as  Chorus. 


ACT   I. 

SCENE  I.— A  Forest.     Thunder  and  Lightning. 

Enter  ATE,  habited  in  sable,  a  burning  torch  in  one 
hand,  a  bloody  sword  in  the  other.  A  lion  then  ap- 
pears, pursuing  a  bear,  which  he  destroys.  Then  fol- 
lows an  archer  who  slays  the  lion,  and  departs.  After 
the  dumb  show  disappears,  ATE  remains. 
11 


In  pcenam  sectatur  et  umbra.1 

Ate.  A  mighty  lion,  ruler  of  the  woods, 
Of  wondrous  strength  and  great  proportion, 
With  hideous  noise  scaring  the  trembling  trees, 
With  yelling  clamors  shaking  all  the  earth, 
Traversed  the    groves,  and  chased  the    wand'ring 
Long  did  he  range  among  the  shady  trees,      [beasts. 
And  drave  the  silly  beasts  before  his  face  ; 
When,  suddenly,  from  out  a  thorny  bush, 
A  dreadful  archer  with  his  bow  ybent, 
Wounded  the  lion  with  a  dismal  shaft.  — 
So  he  him  struck,  that  it  drew  forth  the  blood, 
And  filled  his  furious  heart  with  fretting  ire  ; 
But  all  in  vain  he  threat'neth  teeth  and  paws, 
And  sparkleth  fire  from  forth  his  flaming  eyes, 
For  the  sharp  shaft  gave  him  a  mortal  wound. 
So  valiant  Brute,  the  terror  of  the  world, 
Whose  only  looks  did  scare  his  enemies, 
The  archer,  Death,  brought  to  his  latest  end. 
Oh,  what  may  long  abide  above  this  ground, 
In  state  of  bliss  and  healthful  happiness  !  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— A  Chamber  in  the  Royal  Palace. 

Enter  BRUTUS,  carried  in  a  chair  ;  LOCRINE,  CAMBER, 
ALBANACT,  CORINEIUS,  GUENDELINE,  ASSARACUS, 
DEBON,  THRASYMACHUS. 

Brut.  Most  loyal  lords,  and  faithful  followers, 
That  have  with  me,  unworthy  general, 
Passed  the  greedy  gulf  of  the  ocean, 
Leaving  the  confines  of  fair  Italy, — 
Behold,  your  Brutus  draweth  nigh  his  end, 
And  I  must  leave  you,  though  against  my  will. 
My  sinews  shrink,  my  numbered2  senses  fail, 

1  "  In  pennant  sectatur  et  vmbra." — "  The  shade  or  ghost 
pursues  for  punishment  I"    This  line,  though  it  occurs  in  the 
old  copies  immediately  under  the  name  of  Ate,  does  not  ap- 
pear intended  to  form  any  portion  of  her  soliloquy.    A  space 
occurs  between  it  and  the  lines  which  follow,  and  leaves  it 
standing  as  a  sort  of  epigraph  to  the  speech.    The  frag- 
mentary character  of  the  line  leaves  something  doubtful  in 
its  sense.     Umbra,  which  is  ghost  or  shade,  may  be  used  to 
signify  spectre  or  Fate  ;  it  may  refer  to  Death,  or  to  Ate  her- 
self;  and  it  is  possible  that  a  vague  reference  may  be  in- 
tended to  former  crimes  or  offences  of  Brutus,  who  is  thus 
pursued  by  the  avenging  deities.    And  yet  the  Trojan  Bru- 
tus seems  to  have  lived  to  be  an  old  man. 

2  The  senses  are  numbered,  it  is  true  ;  but,  in  all  proba- 
bility, the  author  meant  to  say,  "  numb6d."    The  rhythm  is 
satisfied  with  either  word. 


160 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  LOCRINE. 


A  chilling  cold  possesseth  all  my  bones, 
Black,  ugly  Death,  with  visage  pale  and  wan, 
Presents  himself  before  my  dazzled  eyes, 
And,  with  his  dart,  prepared  is  to  strike. 
These  arms,  my  lords,  these  never-daunted  arms, 
That  oft  have  quelled  the  courage  of  my  foes, 
And  eke  dismayed  my  neighbor's  arrogance, 
Now  yield  to  death,  o'erlaid  with  crooked  age, 
Devoid  of  strength  and  of  their  proper  force  ; 
Even  as  the  lusty  cedar  worn  with  years, 
That  far  abroad  her  dainty  odor  throws, 
'Mongst  all  the  daughters  of  proud  Lebanon  !  — 
This  heart,  my  lords,  this  ne'er  appalled  heart, 
That  was  a  terror  to  the  bord'ring  lands, 
A  doleful  scourge  unto  my  neighbor  kings, 
Now,  by  the  weapons  of  impartial  Death, 
Is  clove  asunder  and  bereft  of  life  ; 
As  when  the  sacred  oak,  with  thunderbolts, 
•Sent  from  the  fiery  circuit  of  the  heavens, 
Sliding  along  the  air's  celestial  vaults, 
Is  rent  and  cloven  to  the  very  roots. 
In  vain,  therefore,  I  struggle  with  this  foe  : 
Then  welcome  death,  since  God  will  have  it  so. 

Assar.  Alas,  my  lord,  we  sorrow  at  your  case, 
And  grieve  to  see  your  person  vexed  thus :  — 
But  whatsoe'er  the  fates  determined  have, 
It  lieth  not  in  us  to  disannul ; 
And  he  that  would  annihilate  his  mind, 
Soaring  with  Icarus  too  near  the  sun, 
May  catch  a  fall  with  young  Bellerophon. 
For  when  the  fatal  sisters  have  decreed 
To  separate  us  from  this  earthly  mould, 
No  mortal  force  can  countermand  their  minds. 
Then,  worthy  lord,  since  there's  no  way  but  one, 
Cease  your  laments,  and  leave  your  grievous  moan. 

Curin.  Your  highness  knows  how  many  victories, 
How  many  trophies  I  erected  have 
Triumphantly  in  every  place  we  came. 
The  Grecian  monarch,  warlike  Pandrassus, 
And  all  the  crew  of  the  Molossians  ;  — 
Goffarius,  the  strong-armed  king  of  Gaul ;  — 
Have  felt  the  force  of  our  victorious  arms, 
And  to  their  cost  beheld  our  chivalry. 
Where'er  Ancora,  handmaid  of  the  sun, 
Where'er  the  sun,  bright  guardian  of  the  day, 
Where'er  the  joyful  day  with  cheerful  light, 
Where'er  the  light  illuminates  the  world, 
The  Trojan's  glory  flies  with  golden  wings  ;  — 
Wings  that  do  soar  beyond  fell  Envy's  flight. 
The  fame  of  Brutus  and  his  followers 
Pierteth  the  skies,  and  with  the  skies,  the  throne 
Of  mighty  Jove,  commander  of  the  world. 
Then,  worthy  Brutus,  leave  these  sad  laments, 
Comfort  yourself  with  this  your  great  renown, 
And  fear  not  Death,  though  he  seem  terrible. 

Brutus.  Nay,  Corineius,  you  mistake  my  mind, 
In  construing  wrong  the  cause  of  my  complaints :  — 
I  feared  not  t'yield  myself  to  fatal  Death  ; 
God  knows  it  was  the  least  of  all  my  thoughts : 
A  greater  care  torments  my  very  bones, 
And  makes  me  tremble  at  the  thought  of  it ; 
And,  in  your  lordings  doth  the  substance  lie. 

Thrasy.  Most  noble  lord,  if  aught  your  loyal  peers 
Accomplish  may,  to  ease  your  ling'ring  grief, 
I,  in  the  name  of  all,  protest  to  you, 
That  we  will  boldly  enterprise  the  same, 
Were  it  to  enter  to  black  Tartarus, 


Where  triple  Cerberus  with  his  venomous  throat, 
Scareth  the  ghosts  with  high  resounding  noise. 
We'll  either  rend  the  bowels  of  the  earth, 
Searching  the  entrails  of  the  brutish  earth, 
Or,  with  his  Ixion's  overdaring,  soon, 
Be  bound  in  chains  of  ever-during  steel. 

Brut.  Then  hearken   to  your  sovereign's  latest 
[n  which  I  will,  unto  you  all,  unfold  [words, 

Our  royal  mind  and  resolute  intent. 
When  golden  Hebe,  daughter  to  great  Jove, 
Covered  my  manly  cheeks  with  youthful  down, 
The  unhappy  slaughter  of  my  luckless  sire, 
Drove  me,  and  old  Assarachus,  mine  eame,1 
As  exiles  from  the  bounds  of  Italy. 
So  that  perforce  we  were  constrained  to  fly 
To  Grecia's  monarch,  noble  Pandrassus. 
There  I,  alone,  did  undertake  your  cause ; 
There  I  restored  your  antique  liberty, 
Though  Grecia  frowned,  and  all  Molossia  stormed  — 
Though  brave  Antigonus,  with  martial  band, 
In  pitched  field  encountered  me  and  mine  — 
Though  Pandrassus  and  his  contributaries, 
With  all  the  rout  of  their  confederates, 
Sought  to  deface  our  glorious  memory, 
And  wipe  the  name  of  Trojan  from  the  earth. 
Him  did  I  captivate  with  this  mine  arm, 
And  by  compulsion  forced  him  to  agree 
To  certain  articles  which  we  did  propound. 
From  Grecia,  through  the  boisterous  Hellespont, 
We  came  into  the  fields  of  Lestrigon, 
Whereat  our  brother  Corineius  was  ; 
Which,  when  we  passed  the  Cicilian  gulf, 
And  so  transfretting  the  Illician  sea, 
Arrived  on  the  coast  of  Aquitain ; 
Where,  with  an  army  of  his  barbarous  Gauls, 
Goflarius  and  his  brother  Gathelus, 
Encount'ring  with  our  host,  sustained  the  foil, 
And,  for  your  sakes,  my  Turnus  there  I  lost : 
Turnus,  that  slew  six  hundred  men-at-arms, 
All  in  an  hour,  with  his  sharp  battle-axe. 
From  thence,  upon  the  strands  of  Albion, 
To  Corus-haven  happily  we  came, 
And  quelled  the  giants,  come  of  Albion's  race, 
With  Gogmagog,  son  to  Samotheus. 
The  cursfed  captain  of  that  damned  crevr, 
And  in  that  isle  at  length  I  placed  you. 
Now,  let  me  see  if  my  laborious  toils, 
If  all  my  care,  if  all  my  grievous  wounds, 
If  all  my  diligence,  were  well  employed. 

Corin.  When  first  I  followed  thee  and  thine,  brave 
I  hazarded  my  life  and  dearest  blood  [king, 

To  purchase  favor  at  your  princely  hands  ; 
And,  for  the  same,  in  dangerous  attempts, 
In  sundry  conflicts,  and  in  divers  broils, 
I  showed  the  courage  of  my  manly  mind. 
For  this  I  combated  with  Gathelus, 
The  brother  to  Gofiarius  of  Gaul ; 
For  this  I  fought  with  furious  Gogmagog, 
A  savage  captain  of  a  savage  crew  ; 
And,  for  these  deeds,  brave  Cornwall  I  received, 
A  grateful  gift  given  by  a  gracious  king  : 
And,  for  this  gift,  this  life  and  dearest  blood 
Will  Corineius  spend  for  Brutus'  good. 

Deb.  And  what  my  friend,  brave  prince,  hath  vowed 
The  same  will  Debon  do  unto  his  end.  [to  you, 

1  Brother. 


ACT  I.— SCENE  II. 


161 


Brut.  Then,  loyal  peers,  since  you  are  all  agreed, 
And  resolute  to  follow  Brutus'  bests,* 
Favor  my  sons  —  favor  these  orphans,  lords, 
And  shield  them  from  the  dangers  of  their  foes. 
Locrine,  the  column  of  my  family, 
And  only  pillar  of  my  weakened  age  — 
Locrine,  draw  near  —  draw  near  unto  thy  sire, 
And  take  thy  latest  blessing  at  his  hands  : 
And,  for  thou  art  the  eldest  of  my  sons, 
Be  thou  a  captain  to  thy  bretheren, 
And  imitate  thy  aged  father's  steps, 
Which  will  conduct  thee  to  true  honor's  gate : 
For,  if  thou  follow  sacred  virtue's  lore, 
Thou  shall  be  crowned  with  a  laurel-branch, 
And  wear  a  wreath  of  sempiternal  fame, 
Sorted  amongst  the  glorious,  happy  ones. 

Loc.  If  Locrine  do  not  follow  your  advice, 
And  bear  himself  in  all  things  like  a  prince, 
That  seeks  to  amplify  the  great  renown 
Left  unto  him  for  an  inheritance, 
By  those  that  were  his  ancestors, 
Let  me  be  flung  into  the  ocean, 
And  swallowed  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth ;  — 
Or,  let  the  ruddy  lightning  of  great  Jove 
Descend  upon  this  my  devoted*  head. 

Brut,  [toArmg  GUENDELINE  6y  Me  hand].  But — for  I 

see  you  all  to  be  in  doubt  • — 
Who  shall  be  matched  with  our  royal  son  ? 
Locrine,  receive  this  present  at  my  hand  : 
A  gift  more  rich  than  are  the  wealthy  mines 
Found  in  the  bowels  of  America.' 
Thou  shall  be  'spoused  to  fair  Guendeline  : 
Love  her,  and  take  her,  for  she  is  thine  own, 
If  so  thy  uncle  and  herself  do  please. 

Corin.  And  herein  how  your  highness  honors  me, 
It  can  not  now  be  in  my  speech  expressed  ; 
For  careful  parents  glory  not  so  much 
At  their  [own]  honor  and  promotion, 
As  for  to  see  the  issue  of  their  blood 
Seated  in  honor  and  prosperity. 

Guend.  And  far  be  it  from  my  pure  maiden  thoughts 
To  contradict  her  aged  father's  will ; 
Therefore,  since  he  to  whom  I  must  obey, 
Hath  given  me  now  unto  your  royal  self, 
I  will  not  stand  aloof  from  off  the  lure, 
Like  crafty  dames  that  most  of  all  deny 
That  which  they  most  desire  to  possess. 

Brut,  [to  LOCRINE,  who  kneels].  Then  now,  my  son, 

thy  part  is  on  the  stage, 
For  thou  must  bear  the  person  of  a  king. 

[Crowns  LOCRINE. 

Locrine,  stand  up,  and  wear  the  regal  crown, 
And  think  upon  the  stale  of  majesty, 
That  thou  with  honor  well  may'st  wear  the  crown  ; 
And  if  thou  tenderest  these  my  latest  words, 
As  thou  requir'st  my  soul  to  be  at  rest, 
As  thou  desirest  thine  own  security, 
Cherish  and  love  thy  new-betrothed  wife. 

1  The  old  copy  reads  "Aosfs. -"the  word  is  unquestionably 
hests. 

2  The  old  copy  reads  "  devolted,"  which  might  have  been 
revolted.     Devoted  is  probably  the  word. 

3  A  correspondent  hints  that  this  must  be  a  misprint  for 
Armenia,  or  possibly  Armorica.    "  Locrine,"  however,  was 
written  during  Queen  Elizabeth's  reign,  when  the  wealth  of 
America,  newly  found,  was  the  common  talk.    Our  early 
dramatists  never  scrupled  at  an  anachronism ;  and  I  have  no 
doubt  that,  however  improperly,  America  was  the  word  in- 
tended. 


Loc.  No  longer  let  me  well  enjoy  the  crown 
Than  I  do  peerless  Guendeline. 

Brut.  Camber ! 

Cam.  My  lord. 

Brut.  The  glory  of  mine  age  —  [the  son] 

And  darling  of  thy  mother  Junoger  — 
Take  thou  the  south  for  thy  dominion. 
From  thee  there  shall  proceed  a  royal  race, 
That  shall  maintain  the  honor  of  this  land, 
And4  sway  the  regal  sceptre  with  their  hands. 

[Turning  to  ALBAWACT. 
And  Albanact,  thy  father's  onlys  joy, 
Youngest  in  years,  but  not  the  young'st  in  mind, 
A  perfect  pattern  of  all  chivalry, 
Take  thou  the  north  for  thy  dominion ;  — 
A  country  full  of  hills  and  ragged  rocks, 
Replenished  with  fierce,  untamed  beasts, 
As  correspondent  to  thy  martial  thoughts. 
Live  long,  my  sons,  with  endless  happiness, 
And  bear  concordance  firm  among  yourselves ; 
Obey  the  counsels  of  these  fathers  grave, 
That  you  may  better  bear  out  violence  ! 
But  suddenly,  through  weakness  of  my  age, 
And  the  defect  of  youthful  puissance, 
My  malady  increaseth  more  and  more, 
And  cruel  death  hasteneth  his  quickened  pace, 
To  dispossess  me  of  my  earthly  shape : 
Mine  eyes  wax  dim,  o'ercast  with  clouds  of  age  ; 
The  pangs  of  death  compass  my  crazed  bones ;  — 
Then6  to  you  all  my  blessings  I  bequeath, 
And,  with  my  blessings,  this  my  fleeting  soul. 
My  glass  is  run,  and  all  my  miseries 
Do  end  with  life.    Death  closeth  up  mine  eyes, 
My  soul  in  haste  flies  to  the  Elysian  fields.        [Die*. 

Loc.  Accursed  stars,  damned  and  accursed  stars, 
T'abbreviate  my  noble  father's  life  ! 
Hard-hearted  gods,  and  [ye]  too  envious  fates, 
Thus  to  cut  ofi"  my  father's  fatal  thread  ! 
Brutus,  that  was  a  glory  to  us  all — 
Brutus,  that  was  a  terror  to  his  foes  — 
Alas  !  too  soon,  by  Demogorgon's  knife, 
The  martial  Brutus  is  bereft  of  life. 

Coring  No  sad  complaints  may  move  just  Eacus  — 
No  dreadful  threats  can  fear  Judge  Rhadamanth. 
Wert  thou  as  strong  as  mighty  Hercules, 
That  tamed  the  huge[st]  monsters  of  the  world  — 
Plead'st  thou  as  sweet,  on  the  sweet-sounding  lute, 
As  did  the  spouse  of  fair  Eurydice, 
That  did  enchant  the  waters  with  his  noise, 
And  made  the  stones,  birds,  beasts,  to  lead  a  dance, 
Constrained  the  hilly  trees  to  follow  him  — 
Thou  couldst  not  move  the  judge  of  Erebus, 
Nor  move  compassion  in  grim  Pluto's  heart ; 
For  fatal  Mors  expecteth  all  the  world, 
And  every  man  must  tread  the  way  of  death  ! 
Brave  Tantalus,  the  valiant  Pelops'  sire, 
Guest  to  the  gods,  suffered  untimely  death ; 
And  old  Teithonus,  husband  to  the  Morn  ; 
And  eke,  grim  Minos,  whom  just  Jupiter 
Deigned  to  admit  unto  his  sacrifice  .'  — 
The  thundering  trumpels  of  blood-thirsty  Mars  — 

4  "  That  sway"  in  the  old  copies. 

6  Perhaps  we  should  read  other  or  youngest  joy.  We  hare 
no  reason  to  suppose  that  there  is  any  fault  found  with  the 
other  eons. 

6  "  This  to  you  all,"  in  former  copies. 

1  In  all  previous  editions,  this  line,  which  evidently  be» 
longs  to  Corineius,  is  given  to  Locrine. 


162 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  LOCRINE. 


The  fearful  rage  of  fell  Tisiphone  — 

The  boist'rous  waves  of  humid  Ocean, — 

Are  instruments  and  tools  of  dismal  Death. 

Then,  noble  cousin,  cease  to  mourn  his  chance, 

Whose  age  a   1  years  were  signs  that  he  should  die. 

It  resteth  now  that  we  inter  his  bones, 

That  was  a  terror  to  his  enemies. 

Take  up  his  corse,  and,  princes,  hold  him  dead, 

Who,  while  he  lived,  upheld  the  Trojan  state. 

Sound  drums  and  trumpets  ;  march  to  Trinovant, 

There  to  provide  our  chieftain's  funeral.1       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  The  House  of  STRUMBO,  the  Cobbler. 
He  appears  above,  in  a  Gown,  with.  Ink  and  Paper  in 
his  hand. 

Strum.  Either  the  four  elements,  the  seven  planets, 
and  all  the  particular  stars  of  the  pole  Antastic,  are 
adversitive  against  me.  or  else  I  was  begotten  and 
born  in  the  wane  of  the  moon,  when  everything,  as 
Lactantius,  in  his  fourth  Book  of  Constultations,  doth 
say,  goeth  arsward.  Ay,  masters,  ay;  —  you  may 
laugh,  but  I  must  weep  ;  you  may  joy,  but  I  must  sor- 
row :  shedding  salt  tears  from  the  watery  fountains 
of  my  moist,  dainty,  fair  eyes,  along  my  comely  and 
smooth  cheeks,  in  as  great  plenty  as  the  water  run- 
neth from  the  bucking- tubs,  or  red  wine  out  of  the 
hogsheads ;  for,  trust  me,  gentlemen,  and  my  very 
good  friends,  and  so  forth  —  the  little  god,  nay,  the 
desperate  god,  Cuprit,  with  one  of  his  vengible  bird- 
bolts,  hath  shot  me  unto  the  heel ;  so,  not  only,  but 
also,  oh,  fine  phrase,  I  burn,  I  burn,  and  I  bum  a !  — 
in  love,  in  love,  and  in  love  a  !  —  Ah,  Strumbo,  what 
hast  thou  seen  ?  Not  Dina  with  the  ass,  Tom  ?  Yea, 
with  these  eyes  thou  hast  seen  her,  and  therefore  pull 
them  out ;  for  they  will  work  thy  bale.  Ah,  Strum- 
bo,  hast  thou  heard  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  ?  — 
but  a  voice  sweeter  than  hers  ?  —  yea,  with  these  ears 
hast  thou  heard  them,  and  therefore  cut  them  off,  for 
they  have  caused  thy  sorrow.  Nay,  Strumbo,  kill 
thyself,  drown  thyself,  hang  thyself,  starve  thyself. 
Oh  !  but  then  I  shall  leave  my  sweetheart.  Oh,  my 
heart !  Now,  pate,3  for  thy  master.  I  will  'dite  an 
aliquant  love-'pistle  to  her ;  and  then  she,  hearing  the 
grand  verbosity  of  my  scripture,  will  love  me  pres- 
ently. [Writes,  and  then  reads.]  My  pen  is  naught, 
gentlemen ;  lend  me  a  knife.  I  think  the  more  haste 
the  worst  speed.  [Writes  again,  and  reads.]  So  it  is. 
Mistress  Dorothy,  and  the  sole  essence  of  my  soul,  that 
the  little  sparkles  of  affection  kindled  in  me  toward  your 
sweet  self,  have  now  increased  to  a  great  flame,  and  will, 
ere  it  be  long,  consume  my  poor  heart,  except  you,  with 
the  pleasant  water  of  your  secret  fountain,  quench  the 
furious  heat  of  the  same.  Alas  !  lama  gentleman  of 
good  fame  and  name;  majestical ;  in  apparel  comely  ; 
in  gait  portly.  Let  not,  therefore,  your  gentle  heart  be 
so  hard  as  to  despise  a  proper,  tall  young  man  of  a  hand- 
some life,  and,  by  despising  him,  not  only  but  also  to  kill 

1  The  traditional  history  of  Brutus  is  abridged  by  Milton 
in  his  "History  of  England."  He  says  :  "After  this, Brutus, 
in  a  chosen  place,  built  Troja  Nova,  changed  in  time  to  Trin- 
ovantum,  now  London,  and  began  to  enact  laws,  Heli  being 
then  high-priest  in  Judea ;  and  having  governed  the  whole 
isle  twenty-four  years,  died,  and  was  buried  in  his  new  Troy. 
His  three  sons,  Locrine.  Albanact.  and  Camber,  divided  the 
land  by  consent.  Locrine  has  the  middle  part,  Lcegria; 
Camber  possesses  Cambria,  or  Wales ;  Albanact,  Albania, 
now  Scotland,"  &c. 

*  Scratching  his  head. 


him.  Thus,  expecting  time  and  tide,  Ibid  you  Jarevtll. 
Your  servant,  Signor  Strumbo. 

'  0,  wit !  O,  pate  !  0,  memory  !  0,  hand  !  0,  ink  ! 
0,  paper  !  Well,  now  I  will  send  it  away.  Trompart, 
Trompart !  what  a  villain  is  this  !  Why,  sirrah,  come 
when  your  master  calls  you.  Trompart ! 

Trom.  [entering].  Anon,  sir. 

Strum.  Thou  knowest,  my  pretty  boy,  what  a  good 
master  I  have  been  to  thee  ever  since  I  took  thee  in- 
to my  service. 

Trom.  Ay,  sir. 

Strum.  And  how  I  have  cherished  thee  always,  as 
if  thou  hadst  been  the  fruit  of  my  loins,  flesh  of  my 
flesh,  and  bone  of  my  bone. 

Trom.  Ay,  sir. 

Strum.  Then  show  thyself  herein  a  trusty  servant, 
and  carry  this  letter  to  Mistress  Dorothy,  and  tell 
her —  [Whispers  in  his  car  and  exit  TROMPART. 

Strum.  Nay,  masters,  you  shall  see  a  marriage  by- 
and-by.  But,  here  she  comes.  Now  must  I  frame 
my  amorous  passions. 

He  descends  and  enter  DOROTHY  and  TROMPOB.T. 

Doro.  Signor  Strumbo,  well  met.  I  received  your 
letter  by  your  man  here,  who  told  me  a  pitiful  story 
of  your  anguish,  and  so,  understanding  your  passions 
were  so  great,  I  came  hither  speedily. 

Strum.  Oh,  my  sweet  and  Pigsney,3  the  fecundity 
of  my  ingeny*  is  not  so  great,  that  may  declare  unto 
you  the  sorrowful  sobs,  and  broken  sleeps  that   I 
[have]  suffered  for  your  sake  ;  and  therefore  I  desire 
you  to  receive  me  into  your  familiarity. 
For  your  love  doth  lie, 
As  near  and  as  nigh, 

Unto  my  heart  within, 
As  mine  eye  to  my  nose, 
My  leg  unto  my  hose, 
And  my  flesh  unto  my  skin. 

Dor.  Truly,  Master  Strumbo,  you  speak  too  learn- 
edly for  me  to  understand  the  drift  of  your  mind,  and 
therefore  tell  your  tale  in  plain  terms,  and  leave  off 
your  dark  riddles. 

Strum.  Alas,  Mistress  Dorothy,  this  is  my  luck, 
that  when  I  most  would,  I  can  not  be  understood :  so 
that  my  great  learning  is  an  inconvenience  to  me. 
But,  to  speak  in  plain  terms,  I  love  you,  Mistress 
Dorothy,  if  you  like  to  accept  me  into  your  famili- 
arity. 

Dor.  If  this  be  all,  I  am  content. 

Strum.  Say'st  thou  so,  sweet  wench,  let  me  lick 
thy  toes.  Farewell,  mistress.  [  To  the  audience.]  If 
any  of  you  be  in  love,  provide  ye  a  cap-case^  full  of 
new  coined  words,  and  then  shall  you  soon  have  the 
succado  de  labresf  and  something  else.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV. — An  Apartment  in  the  Palace. 
Enter  LOCRINE,  GUENDELINE,  CAMBER,  ALBANACT, 

CORINEIUS,  ASSARACHUS,  DEBON,   THRASYMACHUS. 

Loc.  Uncle  and  princes  of  brave  Britany, 
Since  that  our  noble  father  is  entombed, 

3  Some  ridiculous  diminutive,  signifying  tenderness. 

4  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  seek  a  meaning  for  this  per- 
verse nonsense,  but  Strumbo  would  seem  to  say  that  his  ge- 
nius is  not  so  fecund  as  to  enable  him  to  say  how  much  he 
had  suffered. 

6  The  printers  say.  "  a  case  of  caps,"  '_'  small  caps,"  &c.  A 
case  of  caps  of  new-coined  words,  might  almost  be  taken 
from  the  printing-office. 

6  Sweet  smack  of  the  lips. 


ACT  II.  — SCENE  II. 


163 


As  best  beseemed  so  brave  a  prince  as  he, 
If  so  you  please,  this  day,  my  love  and  I, 
Within  the  temple  of  Concordia, 
Will  solemnize  our  royal  marriage. 

Thrasy.  Right  noble  lord,  your  subjects  every  one, 
Must  needs  obey  your  highness  at  command, 
Especially  in  such  a  cause  as  this, 
That  much  concerns  your  highness'  great  content. 

Loc.  Then  frolic,  lordings,  to  fair  Concord's  walls, 
Where  we  will  pass  the  day  in  knightly  sports, 
The  night  in  dancing  and  in  figured  masks, 
And  offer  to  God,  Risus,  all  our  sports.  [Exeunt. 


ACT   II. 

SCENE  I. 

Enter  ATE,  as  before.  Thunder  and  lightning,  then  a 
mask:  PERSEUS  and  ANDROMEDA,  hand  inhand,  and 
CEPHEUS  with  swords  and  targets.  Then  opposite, 
PHINEUS,  all  black  in  armor,  with  Ethiopians  after 
him,  driving  in  PERSEUS,  and  taking  away  ANDROM- 
EDA. Then  all  depart  but  ATE. 

Regit  omnia  numen.1 

Ate.  When  Perseus  married  fair  Andromeda, 
The  only  daughter  of  King  Cepheus, 
He  thought  he  had  established  well  his  crown, 
And  that  his  kingdom  should  for  aye  endure. 
But  lo  !  proud  Phineus,  with  a  band  of  men, 
Composed2  of  sun-burned  Ethiopians, 
By  force  of  arms,  the  bride  he  took  from  him, 
And  turned  their  joy  into  a  flood  of  tears  ! 
So  fares  it  with  young  Locrine  and  his  love  ;  — 
He  thinks  this  marriage  tendeth  to  his  weal, 
But  this  foul  day,  this  foul  accursed  day, 
Is  the  beginning  of  his  miseries. 
Behold,  where  Humber  and  his  Scythians 
Approacheth  nigh  with  all  his  warlike  train  !  — 
It  needs  not,  I,  the  sequel  should  declare,3 
What  tragic  chances  fell  out  in  this  war.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.— The  Seacoast  of  Britain. 

Enter  HUMBER,  HUBBA,  ESTRILD,  SEGAR,  and  their 

Soldiers. 

Hum.  At  length  the  snail  doth  climb  the  highest 
Ascending  up  the  stateliest  castle  walls  ; —       [tops, 
At  length  the  water,  with  continual  drops, 
Doth  penetrate  the  hardest  marble  stone  ;  — 
At  length  we  are  arrived  in  Albion,  — 
Nor  could  the  barbarous  Dacian's  sovereign, 
Nor  yet  the  ruler  of  brave  Belgia, 
Stay  us  from  cutting  over  to  this  isle  !  — 
Whereas  I  hear,  a  troop  of  Phrygians, 
Under  the  conduct  of  Posthumius'  son, 
Have  pitched  up  lordly  pavilions, 
And  hope  to  prosper  in  this  lovely  isle: 
But  I  will  frustrate  all  their  foolish  hopes, 
And  teach  them  that  the  Scythian  emperor 

1  "Rpgit  nmnia  numen." — "The  Divinity  [Fate]  rules  all 
things."    We  repeat  the  note  here  which  occurs  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  first  act.    The  Latin  epigraph  may  or  may  not 
belong  to  the  speech  of  Ate.    It  would  seem  needless  to  be 
spoken  in  her  case. 

2  "  Contrived"  in  the  original. 

8  In  the  old  copies  this  line  runs  thus  : — 

"  I  need  not  I,  the  sequel  shall  declare." 


Leads  Fortune  tied  in  a  chain  of  gold, 
Constraining  her  to  yield  unto  his  will, 
And  grace  him  with  her  regal  diadem  : 
Which  I  will  have,  maugre  their  treble  hosts, 
And  all  the  power  their  petty  kings  CPU  make. 

Hub.  If  she  that  rules  fair  Rhamnis,  golden  gate, 
Grant  us  the  honor  of  the  victory, 
As  hitherto  she  always  favored  us, 
Right  noble  father,  we  will  rule  the  land, 
Enthronizgd  in  seats  of  topaz  stones, 
That  Locrine  and  his  brethren  all  may  know, 
None  must  be  king  but  Humber  and  his  son. 

Hum.  Courage,  my  son ;  —  fortune  shall  favor  us, 
And  yield  to  us  the  coronet  of  bays, 
That  decketh  none  but  noble  conquerors  !  — 
But  what  saith  Estrild4  to  these  regions  ? 
How  liketh  she  the  temperature  thereof? 
Are  they  not  pleasant  in  her  gracious  eyes  ? 

Est.  The  plains,  my  lord,  garnished  with  Flora's 

wealth, 

And  overspread  with  parti-colored  flowers, 
Do  yield  sweet  contentation  to  my  mind  ;  — 
The  airy  hills,  enclosed  with  shady  groves,  — 
The  groves  replenished  with  sweet  chirping  birds,  — 
The  birds  resounding  heavenly  melody,  — 
Are  equal  to  the  groves  of  Thessaly, 
Where  Phoebus,  and  those  learned  ladies,  nine, 
Delight  themselves  with  music's  harmony, 
And,  from  the  moisture  of  the  mountain  tops, 
The    silent  springs    dance   down    with  murmuring 

streams, 

And  water  all  the  ground  with  crystal  waves  !  — 
The  gentle  blasts  of  Eurus'  modest  wind, 
Moving  the  fluttering^  leaves  of  Sylvan's  woods, 
Do  equal  it  with  Tempe's  paradise, 
And  thus  consorted6  all  to  one  effect, 
Do  make  me  think  these  are  the  happy  isles  !  — 
Most  fortunate  if  Humber  may  them  win. 

Hub.  Madam,  where  resolution  leads  the  way, 
And  courage  follows  with  emboldened  pace, 
Fortune  can  never  use  her  tyranny  !  — 
For  valiantness  is  like  unto  a  rock 
That  standeth  on  the  waves  of  ocean, 
Which,  though  the  billows  beat  on  every  side, 
And  Boreas  fell,  with  his  tempestuous  storms, 
Bloweth  upon  it  with  a  hideous  clamor, 
Yet  it  remaineth  still  immoveable. 

Hum.  Kingly  resolved,  thou  glory  of  thy  sire  !  — 
But,  worthy  Segar,  what  uncouth  novelties7 
Bring'st  thou  unto  our  royal  majesty  ? 

Seg.  My  lord,  the  youngest  of  all  Brutus'  sons, 
Stout  Albanact,  with  millions  of  men, 
Approacheth  nigh,  and  meaneth,  ere  the  morn, 
To  try  your  force  by  dint  of  fatal  sword. 

Hum.  Tut !  —  let  him  come  with  millions  of  hosts, 
He  shall  find  entertainment  good  enough, 
Yea,  fit  for  those  that  are  our  enemies  : 
For  we'll  receive  them  at  our  lances'  points, 
And  massacre  their  bodies  with  our  blades  . 
Yea,  though  they  were  in  number  infinite, 
More  than  the  mighty  Babylonian  queen, 

4  This  name  is  printed  in  the  old  copies  sometimes  as  we 
have  here  written,  and  sometimes  Elstrid.    We  shall  make 
it  uniform  throughout. 

5  "Pilfering"  in  the  old  copy.    It  might  be  "pattering," 
but  "  fluttering"  seems  most  appropriate. 

6  "  Comforted?'  in  the  original.  The  correction  is  found  in 
Howe's  edition. 

t  Uncourtly  news — which  would  better  suit  the  rhythm. 


164 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  LOCRINE. 


Semiramis,  the  ruler  of  the  west, 
Brought  'gainst  the  emperor  of  the  Scythians, 
Yet  would  we  not  start  back  one  foot  from  them : 
That  they  might  know  we  are  invincible. 

Hub.   Now,  by  great  Jove,  the  supreme  king  of 
And  the  immortal  gods  that  live  therein,       [heaven, 
When,  as  the  morning  shows  his  cheerful  face, 
And  Lucifer,  mounted  upon  his  steed, 
Brings  in  the  chariot  of  the  golden  sun, 
I'll  meet  young  Albanact  in  open  field, 
And  crack  my  lance  upon  his  burgonet, 
To  try  the  valor  of  his  boyish  strength  !  — 
There  will  I  show  such  rueful  spectacles 
And  cause  so  great  effusion  of  blood, 
That  all  his  boys  shall  wonder  at  my  strength  !  — 
As  when  the  warlike  queen  of  Amazon, 
Penthesilea,  armed  with  her  lance, 
Girt  with  a  corslet  of  bright-shining  steel, 
Cooped  up  the  faint-heart  Grecians  in  their  camp. 

Hum.  Spoke  like  a  warlike  knight,  my  noble  son  ; 
Nay,  like  a  prince  that  seeks  his  father's  joy. 
Therefore,  to-morrow,  ere  fair  Titan  shine, 
And  bashful  Eos  messenger  of  light, 
Expels  the  liquid  sleep  from  out  men's  eyes, 
Thou  shall  conduct  the  right  wing  of  the  host ;  — 
The  left  wing  shall  be  under  Segar's  charge, 
The  rearward  shall  be  under  me,  myself; 
And  lovely  Estrild,  fair  and  gracious, 
If  Fortune  favor  me  in  mine  attempt, 
Thou  shall  be  queen  of  lovely  Albion. 
Fortune  shall  favor  me  in  mine  altempt, 
And  make  thee  queen  of  lovely  Albion. 
Come,  let  us  in,  and  musler  up  our  train, 
And  furnish  up  our  lusty  soldiers, 
That  they  may  be  a  bulwark  to  our  state, 
And  bring  our  wished  joys  to  perfect  end.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  The  Cobler's  Stall  of  STRUMBO. 

STRUMBO,  DOROTHY,  and  THOMPART,  at  work,  and 

singing. 

Tram.  We  coblers  lead  a  merry  life  : 
Chorus.  Dan,  dan,  dan,  dan. 
Strum.  Void  of  all  envy  and  strife : 
Chorus.  Dan,  diddle  dan.1 
Dor.  Our  ease  is  great,  our  labor  small ; 
Strum.  And  yet  our  gains  be  much,  withal ; 
Dor    With  this  art  so  fine  and  fair,  — 
Trom.  No  occupalion  may  compare  : 
Strum.  For  merry  pastime  and  joyful  glee, — 
Dor.  Mosl  happy  men  we  coblers  be  : 
Trom.  The  can  stands  full  of  nappy  ale, 
Strum.  In  our  shop  still,  withouten  fail : 
Dor.  This  is  cur  meat,  this  is  our  food  ;  — 
Trom.  This  brings  us  to  a  merry  mood  : 
Strum.  This  makes  us  work  for  company  : 
Dor.  To  pull  Ihe  tankards  cheerfully : 
Trom.  Drink  to  thy  husband,  Dorothy. 
Dor.  Why  then,  my  Strumbo,  here's  to  thee: 
Strum.  Drink  thou  the  rest,  Trompart,  amain  : 
Dor.  When  that  is  gone,  we'll  fill't  again  : 
Chorus.  Dan  diddle  dan. 

Enter  Captain. 
Cnpt.  The  pooresl  slale  is  farthest  from  annoy  ! 

1  Each  line  is  followed  by  the  chorus,  as  the  first  two.  \Ve 
omit  them,  ns  the  monotonous  recurrence  of  "  Dun,  dan,  did- 
dle dun,"  sung  or  unsung,  would  only  fatigue. 


How  merrily  he  sitteth  on  his  stool ;  — 
But  when  he  sees  that  needs  he  must  be  pressed, 
He'll  turn  his  note  and  sing  another  tune. 
Ho,  by  your  leave,  master  cobler. 

Strum.  You  are  welcome,  genlleman.  What  will 
you  ?  Any  old  shoes  or  buskins  ;  or  will  you  have 
your  shoes  clouted  ?  I  will  do  them  as  well  as  any 
cobler  in  Cathnes  whatsoever. 

Capt.  [showing  him  press-money].  0,  master  cob- 
ler, you  are  far  deceived  in  me ;  for,  do  you  see 
this  ?  I  come  not  to  buy  any  shoes,  but  to  buy  your- 
self. Come,  sir,  you  must  be  a  soldier  in  the  king's 
cause. 

Strum.  Why,  but  hear  you,  sir  !  —  Has  your  king 
any  commission  to  take  any  man  against  his  will  ? 
I  promise  you,  I  can  scant2  believe  it ;  —  or  did  he  give 
you  commission  ? 

Capt.  Oh,  sir,  you  need  not  care  for  that.  I  need 
no  commission.  Hold  here,  I  command  you,  in  the 
name  of  our  king  Albanact,  to  appear  to-morrow  in 
the  townhouse  of  Cathnes. 

Strum.  King  Nactabell !  —  I  cry  God  mercy!  — 
what  have  we  to  do  with  him,  or  he  with  us  ?  But 
you,  sir,  Master  Capontail,  draw  your  pasteboard,  or 
else  I  promise  you  I'll  give  you  a  canvasado,  with  a 
bastinado  over  your  shoulders,  and  teach  you  to  come 
hither  with  your  implements  ! 

Capt.  I  pray  thee,  good  fellow,  be  content.  I  do 
the  king's  command. 

Strum.  Put  me  out  of  your  book,  then. 

Capt.  I  may  not.  [STRUMEO  snatching  up  a  staff.] 
No  !  wilt  come,  sir?  Will  your  stomach  serve  you  ? 
By  Gog's  blewhood  and  hah'dom,  I  will  have  a  bout 
with  you.  [They  fight. 

Enter  THRASYMACHUS. 

Thrasy.  How  now  ?'what  noise,  what  sudden  clam- 
My  captain  and  the  cobbler  hard  at  fight  ?  [or's  this  ? 
Sirs,  what's  your  quarrel  ? 

Capt.  Nothing,  sir,  but  that  he  will  not  take  press- 
money. 

Thrasy.  Here,  good  fellow,  take  it  at  my  command, 
Unless  you  mean  to  be  strelched. 

Strum.  Truly,  masler  genlleman,  I  lack  no  money. 
If  you  please,  I  will  resign  il  lo  one  of  these  poor  fel- 
lows. 

Thrasy.  No  such  matter  : 
Look,  you  be  at  the  common-house  to-morrow. 

[Exeunt  THRASYMACHUS  and  the  Captain. 

Strum.  O  wife,  I  have  spun  a  fair  thread.  If  1  had 
been  quiet,  I  had  not  been  pressed,  and  therefore  well 
may  I  lament.  But  come,  sirrah,  shut  up,  for  we 
must  to  the  wars.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.—  The  Camp  of  ALBANACT. 

Enter  ALBANACT,  DEBON,  THRASYMACHUS,  and  other 
Lords. 

Alb.  Brave  cavaliers,  princes  of  Albany, 
Whose  trenchant  blades,  with  our  deceased  sire, 
Passing  the  frontiers  of  brave  Grecia, 
Were  bathed  in  our  enemies'  lukewarm  blood, 
Now  is  the  time  to  manifest  your  will, 
Your  haughty  minds  and  resolutions  ! 
Now  opportunily  is  offered 

2  Scant— scarce. 


ACT  II.— SCENE  V. 


165 


To  try  your  courage  and  your  earnest  zeal, 
Which  you  always  professed'  to  Albanact ; 
For,  at  this  time,  yea,  at  this  present  time, 
Stout  fugitives,  come  from  the  Scythian's  bounds, 
Have  pestered  every  place  with  mutinies  : 
But  trust  me,  lordings,  I  will  never  cease 
To  persecute  the  rascal  runagates, 
Till  all  the  rivers,  stained  with  their  blood, 
Shall  fully  show  their  fatal  overthrow. 

Deb.  So  shall  your  highness  merit  great  renown, 
And  imitate  your  aged  father's  steps. 

Alb.  But  tell  me,  cousin,  cam'st  thou  through  the 

plains, 

And  saw'st  thou  there  the  faint-heart  fugitives 
Mustering  their  weather-beaten  soldiers  ? 
What  order  keep  they  in  their  marshalling? 

Thrasy.  After  we  passed  the  groves  of  Caledon, 
We  did  behold  the  straggling  Scythians'  camp, 
Replete  with  men,  stored  with  munition. 
There  might  we  see  the  valiant-minded  knights 
Fetching  careers2  along  the  spacious  plains  ;  — 
Humber  and  Hubba,  armed  in  azure  blue, 
Mounted  upon  their  coursers  white  as  snow, 
Went  to  behold  the  pleasant  flow'ring  fields  ;  — 
Hector  and  Troilus,  Priam's  lovely  sons, 
Chasing  the  Grecians  over  Simo  is, 
Were  not  to  be  compared  to  these  two  knights. 

Alb.  Well  hast  thou  painted  out,  in  eloquence, 
The  portraiture  of  Humber  and  his  son  ;  — 
As  fortunate  as  was  Polycrates  : 
Yet  should  they  not  escape  our  conquering  swords, 
Oi  bo-ist  of  aught  but  of  our  clemency. 

[Cries  without.]  — Enter  STRUMHO  and  TROMPART. 

Strum,  and  Trom.  Wildfire  and  pitch,  wildfire  and 
pitch  ! 

Thrasy.  What,  sirs  !  —  what  mean  you  by  these 

clamors  made  — 
These  outcries  raised  in  our  stately  court  ? 

S!rum.  Wildfire  and  pitch,  wildfire  and  pitch  ! 

Thrasy.  Villains  !  I  say,  tell  us  the  cause  hereof. 

Strum.  Wildfire  and  pitch,  wildfire  and  pitch  ! 

Thrasy.  Tell  me,  you  villains,  why  you  make  this 

noise, 
Or,  with  my  lance,  I'll  prick  your  bowels  out. 

All.  Where  are  your  houses,  where's  your  dwelling- 
place  ? 

Strum.  Place  ?  ha,  ha,  ha  !  laugh  a  month  and  a 
day  at  him.  Place  !  I  cry  God  mercy  !  why,  do  you 
think  that  such  poor,  honest  men  as  we  be,  hold  our 
habitacles  in  kings'  palaces  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  But,  be- 
cause you  seem  to  be  an  abominable  chieftain,  I  will 
tell  you  our  state3  — 

From  the  top  to  the  toe, 
From  the  head  to  the  shoe  ; 
From  the  beginning  to  the  ending. 
From  the  building  to  the  burning. 

This  honest  fellow  and  I  had  our  mansion-cottage 
in  the  suburbs  of  this  city,  hard  by  the  temple  of 
Mercury;  and  [these],  by  the  common  soldiers  of  the 

,4  the  Scythians  —  what  do  you  call  them?  — 

with  all  the  suburbs,  were  burnt  to  the  ground,  and 

1  "  Protest"  in  the  folio. 

*  "  Carriers"  ill  the  old  copy. 

3  '•  Your  suite''  in  the  folio. 

4  I  havu  here  suppressed  a  vulgarity. 


the  ashes  are  left  there  for  the  country  wives  to  wash 
bucks  withal. 

And  that  which  grieves  me  most, 
My  loving  wife,  0  cruel  strife  ] 

The  wicked  flames  did  roast. 
And  therefore,  Captain  Crust, 

We  will  continually  cry, 

Except  you  seek  a  remedy 

Our  houses  to  re-edify, 

Which  now  are  burnt  to  dust  ! 

Both  cry.  Wildfire  and  pitch,  wildfire  and  pitch  ! 

Alb.  Well,  we  must  remedy  these  outrages, 
And  throw  revenge  upon  their  hateful  heads  : 
And  you,  good  fellows,  for  your  houses  burnt, 
WTe  will  remunerate  you  store  of  gold, 
And  build  your  houses  by  our  palace-gate. 

Strum.  Gate  ?  O,  petty  treason  to  rny  person  !  no- 
where else  but  by  your  backside  ?  Gate  ?  oh  how  I 
am  vexi'd  in  my  choler  !  Gate  ?  1  cry  God  mercy,  do 
you  heur,  master  king  ?  If  you  mean  to  gratify  such 
poor  men  as  we  be,  you  must  build  our  houses  by  the 
tavern. 

Alb.  It  shall  be  done,  sir. 

Strum.  Near  the  tavern  !  ay,  by'r  lady,  sir,  it  was 
spoken  like  a  good  fellow.  Do  you  hear,  sir  ?  when 
our  house  is  builded,  if  you  do  chance  to  pass  or  re- 
pass  that  way,  we  will  bestow  a  quart  of  the  best 
wine  upon  you.  \Exit. 

A'h.  It  grieves  me,  lordings,  that  my  subjects' goods 
Should  thus  be  spoiled  by  the  Scythians, 
Who,  as  you  see,  with  lightfoot  foragers 
Depopulate  the  places  where  they  come. 
But,  cursed  Humber,  thou  shall  rue  the  day 
That  e'er  thou  cam'st  unto  Cathnesia  !  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  \.-The  Camp  of  HUMBER. 

Enter  HUMBER,  HUBBA,  SEGAR,  THHASSIER,  and-Sol- 
diers. 

Hum.  Hubba,  go  take  a  cornet  of  our  horse, 
As  many  lancers,  and  light-armed  knights, 
As  may  suffice  for  such  an  enterprise, 
And  place  them  in  the  grove  of  Caledon  ; 
With  these,  when  as  the  skirmish  doth  increase, 
Retire  thou  from  the  shelter  of  the  wood, 
And  set  upon  the  weakened  Trojans'  backs ;. — 
For  policy,  [when]  joined  with  chivalry, 
Can  never  be  put  back  from  victory.       [Etcit  HUBBA. 

Enter  ALBANACT,. with  his  Militia. 

Alb.  Thou  base-born  Hun, .how  durst  thou  be  sc 
As  thus*  to  menace  warlike  Albanact,  [bold 

The  great  commander  of  these  regions? 
But  thou  shall  buy  thy  rashness  with  thy  death, 
And  rue  too  late  thy  over-bold  attempts  ; 
For,  with  this  sword,  this  instrument  of  death, 
That  hath  been  drenched  in1  my  foemen's  blood, 
I'll  separate  thy  body  from  thy  head. 
And  set  that  coward  blood  of  thine  abroach. 

Strum.  Nay,  with  Ihis  slafF,  great  Strumbo's  instrtii 
I'll  crack  thy  cock's-comb,  paltry  Scythian  !  [ment, 

Hum.  Nor  reck  I  of  thy  threats,  thou  princox  boy 
Nor  do  I  fear  thy  foolish  insolency  ; 
And,  bul  thou  better  use  thy  bragging  blade 

5  "  Once"  iu  the  folio. 


166 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  LOCRINE. 


Than  thou  dost  rule  thy  overflowing  tongue, 
Superbious  Briton,  thou  shall  know  too  soon 
The  force  of  Humber  and  his  Scythians.  [They  fight. 

HUMBER  and  his  troops  are  driven  in. 
Strum.  O,  horrible  !  0,  terrible  !  [Exeunt. 

SCKN'E  VI.  —  Another  part  of  the  Field  of  Battle. 
Alarums.    Enter  HUMBER  and  his  Soldiers. 

Hum.  How  bravely  this  young  Briton,  Albanact, 
Darteth  abroad  the  thunderbolts  of  war  ! 
Beating  down  millions  with  his  furious  mood, 
And  in  his  glory  triumphs  over  all, 
Moving  the  massy  squadrons  off  the  ground  ! 
Heap  hills  on  hilJs,  to  scale  the  starry  sky  !  — 
As  when  Briareus,  armed  with  hundred  hands, 
Flung  forth  a  hundred  mountains  at  great  Jove  ; 
As  when  the  monstrous  giant  Monichus 
Hurled  Mount  Olympus  at  great  Mars'  targe, 
And  shot  huge  cedars  at  Minerva's  shield  ! 
How  doth  he  overlook,  with  haughty  front, 
My  fleeting  host,  and  lifts  his  lofty  face 
Against  us  all,  that  now  do  fear  his  force  — 
Like  as  we  see  the  wrathful  sea  from  far, 
In  a  great  mountain  heap1  with  hideous  noise, 
With  thousand  billows,  beats  against  the  ships, 
And  toss  them  in  the  waves  like  tennis-balls  ! 

\Alarums. 
Ah  me  !  I  fear  my  Hubba  is  surprised  ! 

[Exit  HUIIBEB. 

Alarums.    Enter  ALBANACT. 

Alb    Follow  me.  soldiers,  follow  Albanact : 
Pursue  the  Scythians,  flying  through  the  field  ; 
Let  none  of  them  escape  with  victory  ! 
That  they  may  know  the  Briton's  force  is  more 
Than  is  the  power  of  all  the  trembling  Huns. 

Thrasy.   Forward,  brave  soldiers,  forward !   keep 

the  chase  ! 

He  that  takes  captive  Humber,  or  his  son, 
Shall  be  rewarded  with  a  crown  of  gold.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VII.  —  Another  part  of  the  Field. 

Alarums.  Enter  HUMBER,  pursued  by  DEBON.  HUB- 
BA enters  behind,  kills  DEBON,  and  exit.  STRUMBO 
falls,  pretending  to  be  slain.  Enter  ALBANACT, 
wounded. 

Alb.  Injurious  fortune,  hast  thou  crossed  me  thus  ? 
Thus,  in  the  morning  of  my  victories  — 
Thus,  in  the  prime  of  my  felicity, 
To  cut  me  off  by  such  hard  overthrow  ! 
Hadst  thou  no  time  thy  rancor  to  declare, 
But  in  the  spring  of  all  my  dignities  ? 
Hadst  thou  no  place  to  spit  thy  venom  out, 
But  on  the  person  of  young  Albanact  ? 
I,  that  ere  while  did  scare  mine  enemies, 
And  drove  them  almost  to  a  shameful  flight ; 
I,  that  erewhile,  full  lion-like  did  fare 
Amongst  the  dangers  of  the  thick-thronged  pikes  — 
Must  now  depart,  most  lamentably  slain 
By  Humber's  treacheries  and  Fortune's  spites  ! 
Cursed  be  her  charms,  damned  be  her  cursCd  charms, 
That  doth  delude  the  wayward  hearts  of  men  — 
Of  men  that  trust  unto  her  fickle  wheel, 
Which  never  leaveth  turning  upside  down ! 
1  "Heap't"  in  former  copies. 


O  gods  !  O  heavens  !  allot  me  but  the  place 
Where  I  may  find  her  hateful  mansion. 
I'll  pass  the  Alps  to  watery  Meroe, 
Where  fiery  Phosbus  in  his  chariot, 
The  wheels  whereof  are  decked  with  emeralds. 
Casts  such  a  heat,  yea,  such  a  scorching  heat, 
As  spoileth  Flora  of  her  chequered  grass  !  — 
I'll  overturn  the  mountain  Caucasus, 
Where  fell  Chimera,  in  her  triple  shape, 
Rolleth  hot  flames  from  out  her  monstrous  paunch, 
Scaring  the  beasts  with  issue  of  her  gorge  !  — 
I'll  pass  the  frozen  zone,  where  icy  flakes, 
Stopping  the  passage  of  the  fleeting  ships, 
Do  lie,  like  mountains,  in  the  congealed  sea  ! — 
Where,  if  I  find  that  hatefnl  house  of  hers, 
I'll  pull  the  fickle  wheel  from  out  her  hands, 
And  tie  herself  in  everlasting  bands  ! 
But  all  in  vain  I  breathe  these  threatenings : 
The  day  is  lost :  the  Huns  are  conquerors  ; 
Debon  is  slain  ;  my  men  are  done  to  death  ; 
The  currents  swift  swim  violent  with  blood ; 
And  last  —  0,  that  this  last  night  so  long  last  !  — 
Myself,  with  wounds  past  all  recovery, 
Must  leave  my  crown  for  Humber  to  possess.  \Falls 
Strum.  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us,  masters  !  1  think 
this  is  a  holyday :  every  man  lies  sleeping  in  the 
fields  ;  but,  God  knows,  full  sore  again-t  their  wills. 

Enter  THRASYMACHUS. 

Thrasy.  Fly,  noble  Albanact,  and  save  thyself! 
The  Scythians  follow  with  great  celerity, 
And  there's  no  way  but  flight,  or  speedy  death  ; 
Fly,  noble  Albanact,  and  save  thyself.          [Alnrumi. 

Alb.  Nay,  let  them  fly  that  fear  to  die  the  death, 
That  tremble  at  the  name  of  fatal  Mors : 
Ne'er  shall  proud  Humber  boast  or  brag  himself 
That  he  hath  put  young  Albanact  to  flight ; 
And  lest  he  should  triumph  at  my  decay, 
This  sword  shall  'reave  his  master  of  his  life, 
That  oft  hath  saved  his  master's  doubtful  life  ! 
But  oh  !  my  brethren,  if  you  care  for  me, 
Revenge  my  death  upon  his  traitorous  head. 
Et  vos  queis  domus  est  nigrantis  regia  ditis, 
Qui  regiiis  rigido  Stygios  moderamine  lucos  ; 
Nox  cteci  regina  poli,furialis  Erinnys, 
Diique  dcteque  oinnes  Albanum  tollite  regem, 
Tollite  flumineis  undis  rigidaque  palude  ; 
Nunc  me  fata  vacant,  hoc  condam  pectore  ferrum* 

[Stabs  himself.3 

3  There  is  certainly  great  dignity  in  thu«  dyins  with  one's 
mouth  full  of  Latin  hexameters.     These  verses  are  probably 
original  with  the  author,  and  if  the  play  be  Shakspoare's.  will 
certainly  justify  the  claim  of  Ben  Jonson  of  a  "  little  Latin'1 
in  his  behalf.    "The  reader  may  lie  curious  to  pee  Kin2  Al- 
banacfs  speech  in   the  vernacular.      A  learned  friend,  to 
whom  the  Latin  verses  of  this  play  were  all  submitted,  if 
possible  for  verification  with  those  of  known  classical  au- 
thors, sucgests,  that,  as  we  do  not  hear  of  Stygian  frrnre*  in 
our  mythology,  we  should  probably  read,  for  "tucos."'  in  the 
second  line,  lacos  : — but  the  banks  of  the  Styginn  Inke  msy 
have  had  their  woods,  and  I  prefer  that  the  word  should 
stand  as  in  the  old  folio.    Our  rendering  is  almost  literal:— 
"  And  you  who  sway  in  Pluto's  royal  house, 
And  govern  with  stern  power  the  Stygian  realms, 
Night,  queen  of  cloudy  heavens — thou  fearful  fury, 
And  you,  ye  gods  and  goddesses,  receive 
The  Alban  sovereign  to  your  gloomy  lake 
And  ever-flowing  streams  !— The  summoning  fates 
Decree,  and  through  this  bosom  goes  the  sword." 
3  Milton's  history  of  the  defeat  of  Albanact  is  as  follows  : 
"He  [Albanact],  hi  the  end,  by  Humber,  king  of  the  ,Huns, 
who  with  a  fleet  invaded  that  land  [Scotland — Albania],  was 
slain  in  tight,  and  his  people  drove  back  into  Lcegria." 


ACT  III.— SCENE  II. 


167 


Enter  TROMPART,  who  sees  STRUMBO. 

Trom.  Oh  !  what  hath  he  done  ?  his  nose  bleeds  : 
but  I  smell  a  fox  ;  look  where  my  master  lies.  Mas- 
ter, master ! 

Strum.  Let  me  alone,  I  tell  thee,  for  I'm  dead. 
Trom.  Yet  one  word,  good  master. 
Strum.  I  will  not  speak,  for  I  am  dead,  I  tell  thee. 
Trom.  And  is  my  master  dead  ? 
0,  sticks  and  stones,  brickbats  and  bones, 

And  is  my  master  dead  ? 
0  you  cockatrices,  and  you  bablatrices, 

That  in  the  woods  dwell ; 

You  briers  and  brambles,  you  cook-shops  and  sham- 
Come,  howl  and  yell !  [bles, 
With  howling  and  shrieking,  with  Availing  and  weep- 
Come  you,  lament ;  [ing, 
0  colliers  of  Croyden.  and  rustics  of  Royden, 

And  fishers  of  Kent ;  — 
For  Strumbo  the  cobbler,  the  fine,  merry  cobbler, 

Of  Cathnes  town, 
At  this  same  stour,  at  this  very  hour, 

Lies  dead  on  the  ground  ! 
0,  master  !  thieves,  thieves,  thieves  ! 

Strum.  Where  be  they  ?  Cox  me  tunny,  bobekin, 
let  me  be  rising.  Be  gone  ;  we  shall  be  robbed  by- 
and-by.  [  They  run  off. 

SCENE  VIII.—  The  Camp  of  the  Huns. 

Enter  HUMBER,  HUBBA,  SEGAR.  THRASSIER,  ESTRILD, 
and  Soldiers. 

Hum.  Thus,  from  the  dreadful  shocks  of  furious 
Thund'ring  alarums,  and  Rhamnusia's  drum,    [Mars' 
We  are  retired  with  joyful  victory. 
The  slaughtered  Trojans,  weltering1  in  their  blood, 
Infect  the  air  with  their  [dead]  carcasses, 
And  are  a  prey  for  every  ravenous  bird. 

Est.  So  perish  they  that  are  our  enemies  ! 
So  perish  they  that  love  not  Humber's  weal !  — 
And,  mighty  Jove,  commander  of  the  world, 
Protect  my  love  from  all  false  treacheries. 

Hum.  Thanks,  lovely  Estrild,  solace  to  my  soul ! 
But,  valiant  Hubba,  for  thy  chivalry 
Declared  against  the  men  of  Albany, 
Lo  !  —  here  a  flowering  garland  wreathed  of  bay, 
As  a  reward  for  this  thy  forward  mind ! 

[Crowns  HUBBA. 

Hub.  This  unexpected  honor,  noble  sire, . 
Will  prick  my  courage  unto  braver  deeds, 
And  cause  me  to  attempt  such  hard  exploits, 
That  all  the  world  shall  sound  of  Hubba's  name. 

Hum.  And  now,  brave  soldiers,  for  this  good  suc- 
Carouse  whole  cups  of  Amazonian  wine,2  [cess, 

Sweeter  than  nectar  or  ambrosia  ; 
And  cast  away  the  clouds  of  cursed  care 
With  goblets  crowned  with  Semeleius'  gifts  !  — 
Now  let  us  march  to  Abis'  silver  streams, 
That  clearly  glide  along  the  champaign  fields, 
And  moist  the  grassy  meads  with  humid  drops. 
Sound  drums  and  trumpets  —  sound  up  cheerfully, 
Sith  we  return  with  joy  and  victory.  [Exeunt. 

l  I  have  substituted  weltering  for  "  sqtieltering,"  the  word 
employed  in  the  old  copies,  and  in  its  day  quite  legitimate, 
but  bavins  the  same  meaning  with  the  modern  word. 

*  It  is  difficult  to  sa3r  what  sort  of  beverage  this  could  have 
been.  From  its  name  it  should  unite  the  virtues  of  both 
sexes,  the  strength  of  the  one  with  the  sweetness  of  the 
other  :  a  good  name  for  a  drink. 


ACT    III. 

SCENE  I. 

Enter  ATE,  as  before.  A  dumb  Show.  A  Crocodilt 
lies  on  a  River's  Bank  ;  a  little  Snake  stings  it,  and 
both  fall  into  the  Water. 

Ate.  Scelera  in  authorem  cadunt? 
High  on  a  bank  by  Nilus'  boisterous*  streams, 
Fearfully  sat  the  Egyptian  crocodile, 
Dreadfully  grinding,  in  her  sharp  long  teeth, 
The  broken  bowels  of  a  silly  fish  : 
His  back  was  armed  against  the  dint  of  spear, 
With  shields  of  brass  that  shone  like  burnished  gold  ; 
And,  as  he  stretched  forth  his  cruel  paws, 
A  subtle  adder,  creeping  closely  near, 
Thrusting  his  forked  tongue  into  his  claws, 
Privily  shed  his  poison  through  his  bones, 
Which  made  him  swell,  that  there  his  bowels  burst 
That  did  so  much  in  his  own  greatness  trust. 
So  Humber,  having  conquered  Albanact, 
Doth  yield  his  glory  unto  Locrine's  sword. 
Mark  what  ensues,  and  you  may  eas'ly  see 
That  all  our  life  is  but  a  tragedy.  [Exit. 

SCENE  II.  — Troynovant.  An  Apartment  in  the  Royal 
Palace. 

Enter  LOCRINE,  GUENDELINE,  CORINEIUS,  ASSARACUS, 
THRASYMACHUS,  and  CAMBER. 

Loc.  And  is  this  true  ?  is  Albanactus  slain  ? 
Hath  curs6d  Humber,  with  his  straggling  host  — 
With  that  his  army  made  of  mongrel  curs  — 
Brought  our  redoubted  brother  to  his  end  ? 
O,  that  I  had  the  Thracian  Orpheus'  harp, 
For  to  awake,  out  of  the  infernal  shade, 
Those  ugly  devils  of  black  Erebus 
That  might  torment  the  damne"d  traitor's  soul ! 
0,  that  I  had  Amphion's  instrument, 
To  quicken,  with  his  vital  notes  and  tunes, 
The  flinty  joints  of  every  stony  rock, 
By  which  the  Scythians  might  be  punished  ! 
For,  by  the  lightning  of  Almighty  Jove, 
The  Hun  shall  die  had  he  ten  thousand  lives  ! 
And,  would  to  God  he  had  ten  thousand  lives, 
That  I  might,  with  the  arm-strong  Hercules, 
Crop  off  so  vile  a  hydra's  hissing  heads  ! 
But,  say,  my  cousin,  for  I  long  to  hear, 
How  Albanact  came  by  untimely  death? 

Thrasy.  After  the  traitorous  host  of  Scythians 
Entered  the  field  with  martial  equipage, 
Young  Albanact,  impatient  of  delay, 
Led  forth  his  army  'gainst  the  straggling  mates, 
Whose  multitude  did  daunt  our  soldiers'  minds. 
Yet  nothing  could  dismay  the  froward  prince  ; 
Who,5  with  a  courage  most  heroical, 
Like  to  a  lion  'mongst  a  flock  of  lambs, 
Made  havoc  of  the  faint-heart  fugitives, 
Hewing  a  passage  through  them  with  his  sword  ! 

"  "  Scelera  in  authorem  cadttnt." — The  author,  or  doer,  is 
responsible,  or  answerable,  for  the  crime  or  deed.  In  imi- 
table  blank  verse : — 

"  The  criminal  must  answer  for  his  crime  !" 
It  will  be  observed  that  here  the  printer  has  made  the  ven- 
graph  a  part  of  the  speech  of  Ate\ 

4  The  epithet  here  is  better  suited  to  the  rhythm  than  the 
river. 

6  I  substitute  who  for  "  but,"  which  is  the  word  in  previ 
ous  editions. 


L68 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  LOCRINE. 


Yea,  we  had  almost  given  them  the  repulse, 
When  suddenly,  from  out  the  silent  wood, 
Hubba,  with  twenty  thousand  soldiers, 
Cowardly  came  upon  our  weakened  backs, 
And  murdered  all  with  fatal  massacre  ; 
Amongst  the  which,  old  Debon,  martial  knight, 
With  many  wounds  was  brought  unto  the  death  ; 
And  Albanact,  oppressed  with  multitudes, 
Whilst  valiantly  he  felled  his  enemies, 
Yielded  his  life  and  honor  to  the  dust. 
He  being  dead,  the  soldiers  fled  amain, 
And  1  alone  escaped  them  by  flight, 
To  bring  you  tidings  of  these  accidents. 

Loc.  Not  age"d  Priam,  king  of  stately  Troy, 
Grand  emperor  of  barbarous  Asia, 
When  he  beheld  his  noble-minded  sons 
Slain  trait'rously  by  all  the  myrmidons, 
Lamented  more  than  I  for  Albanact. 

Guend.  Not  Hecuba,  the  queen  of  Ilium, 
When  she  beheld  the  town  of  Pergamus, 
Her  palace,  burnt  with  all-devouring  flames, 
Her  fifty  sons  and  daughters,  fresh  of  hue, 
Murdered  by  wicked  Pyrrhus'  bloody  sword, 
Shed  such  sad  tears  as  I  for  Albanact. 

Cam.  The  grief  of  Niobe,  fair  Athens'  queen, 
For  her  seven  sons  magnanimous  in  field, 
For  her  seven  daughters  fairer  than  the  fair'st, 
Is  not  to  be  compared  with  my  laments. 

Cor.  In  vain  you  sorrow  for  the  slaughtered  prince, 
In  vain  you  sorrow  for  his  overthrow ; 
He  loves  not  most  that  doth  lament  the  most, 
But  he  that  seeks  t'avenge  the  injury. 
Think  you  to  quell  the  enemy's  warlike  train 
With  childish  sobs  and  womanish  laments  ? 
Unsheath  your  swords,  unsheath  your  conquering 
And  seek  revenge,  the  comfort  for  this  sore  !  [swords, 
In  Cornwall,  where  I  hold  my  regiment, 
Even  just  ten  thousand  valiant  men-at-arms, 
Hath  Corineius  ready  at  command  !  — 
All  these,  and  more,  if  need  shall  more  require, 
Hath  Corineius  ready  at  command. 

Cam.  And,  in  the  fields  of  martial  Cambria, 
Close  by  the  boisterous  Iscan's  silver  streams, 
WThere  lightfoot  fairies  skip  from  bank  t(.  bank, 
Full  twenty  thousand  brave,  courageous  knights, 
Well  exercised  in  feats  of  chivalry, 
In  manly  manner  most  invincible, 
Young  Camber  hath,  with  gold  and  victual : 
All  these,  and  more,  if  need  shall  more  require, 
I  offer  up  t'avenge  my  brother's  death. 

Loc.  Thanks,  loving  uncle,  and  good  brother  too  : 
For  this  revenge  — for  this  sweet  word  revenge  — 
Must  ease  and  cease  my  wrongful  injuries  ; 
And,  by  the  sword  of  bloody  Mars,  I  swear, 
Ne'er  shall  sweet  quiet  enter  this  my  front,1 
Till  I  be  'venged  on  his  trait'rous  head 
That  slew  my  noble  brother  Albanact. 
Sound  drums  and  trumpets  ;  muster  up  the  camp ;  — 
For  we  will  straight  march  to  Albania.          [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  The  Banks  of  the  River,  afterward  the 

Humber. 
Enter  HUMBEH,  ESTRILD,  HUBBA,  THRASSIER,  and 

Soldiers. 

Hum.  Thus  are  we  come,  victorious  conquerors, 
Unto  the  flowing  current's  silver  streams  — 
1  Brain— he  touches  his  forehead. 


Which,  in  memorial  of  our  victory, 
Shall  be  agnominated  by  our  name, 
And  talked  of  by  our  posterity  !  — 
For  sure,  I  hope,  before  the  golden  Sun 
Postelh  his  horses  to  fair  Thetis'  plains, 
To  see  the  water  turned  into  blood, 
Changing  his  bluish  hue  to  rueful  red, 
By  reason  of  the  fatal  massacre 
Which  shall  be  made  upon  the  virent  plains. 

The  Ghost  of  ALBANACT  enters,  and  stretches  his  Arm 
over  HUMBER. 

Ghost,  TSee  how  the  traitor  doth  presage  his  harm . 
See  how  he  glories  at  his  own  decay  !  — 
See  how  he  triumphs  at  his  proper  loss  !  — 
0  Fortune,  vile,  unstable,  fickle,  frail ! 

Hum.  Methinks  I  see  both  armies  in  the  field  ! 
The  broken  lances  climb  the  crystal  skies  : 
Some  headless  lie  j  some  breathless  on  the  ground  ; 
And  every  place  is  strewed  with  carcasses.  — 
Behold,  the  grass  hath  lost  his  pleasant  green, 
The  sweetest  sight  that  ever  might  be  seen. 

Ghost.  Ay,  traitorous  Humber,  thou  shall  find  it  so  ; 
Yea,  to  thy  cost,  thou  shall  the  same  behold, 
With  anguish,  sorrow,  and  with  sad  laments. 
The  grassy  plains,  that  now  do  please  thine  eyes, 
Shall,  ere  the  night,  be  colored  all  with  blood  ; 
The  shady  groves  that  now  enclose  thy  camp, 
And  yield  sweet  savor  to  thy  damned  corps,3 
Shall,  ere  the  night,  be  figured  all  with  blood  !  — 
The  profound  stream  that  passeth  by  thy  tenls, 
And  wilh  his  moisture  serveth  all  thy  camp, 
Shall,  ere  the  night,  converted  be  to  blood  — 
Yea,  with  the  blood  of  these  thy  straggling  boys  : 
For  now  revenge  shall  ease  my  lingering  grief, 
And  now  revenge  shall  glut  my  longing  soul. 

[Ghost  disappears. 

Hub.  Let  come  what  will,  I  mean  to  bear  it  out| 
And  either  live  with  glorious  victory, 
Or  die  with  fame  renowned  for  chivalry  ! 
He  is  not  worthy  of  the  honeycomb, 
That  shuns  the  hive  because  the  bees  have  stings  ! 
That  likes  me  best  that  is  not  got  with  ease, 
Which  thousand  dangers  do  accompany  ; 
For  nothing  can  dismay  our  regal  mind, 
WPiich  aims  at  nothing  but  a  golden  crown, 
The  only  upshot  of  mine  enterprise. 
Were  it  enchanted  in  grim  Pluto's  court, 
And  kept  for  treasure  'mongst  his  hellish  crew, 
I'd  either  quell  the  triple  Cerberus, 
And  all  the  army  of  his  hateful  hags, 
Or  roll  the  stone  with  wretched  Sysiphus. 

Hum.  Right  martial  be  thy  thoughts,  my  noble 
And  all  thy  words  savor  of  chivalry  !  —  [son, 

Enter  SEGAR,  in  haste. 

But,  warlike  Segar,  what  strange  accidents 
Make  you  to  leave  the  warding  of  the  camp  ? 

Seg.  To  arms,  my  lords,  to  honorable  arms  !  — 
Take  helm  and  targe  in  hand  ;  —  the  Britous  come, 
With  greater  multitude  than  erst  the  Greeks 
Brought  to  the  ports  of  Phrygian  Tenedos. 

Hum.  But  what  sayeth  Segar  to  these  accidents  ? 
What  counsel  gives  he  in  extremities  ? 

*  "  Corps" — in  the  sense  of  body  ;  though  it  may  be  coryu 
— or  body  of  men.     Corse  would  be  the  better  substitute. 


ACT  III.— SCENE  V. 


Seg.  Why  this,  my  lord :  experience  teacheth  us 
That  resolution  is  sole  help  at  need  ; 
And  this,  my  lord,  our  honor  teacheth  us  — 
That  we  be  bold  in  every  enterprise. 
Then,  since  there's  no  way  but  to  fight  or  die, 
Be  resolute,  my  lord,  for  victory. 

Hum.  And  resolute,  Segar,  [do]  I  mean  to  be  !  — 
Perhaps  some  blissful  star  will  favor  us, 
And  comfort  bring  to  our  perplexed  state. 
Come,  let  us  in  and  fortify  our  camp, 
So  to  withstand  their  strong  invasion.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.  —  Before  the  Hovel  of  a  Peasant. 

Enter  STRUMBO,  TROMPART,  OLIVER,  and  his   Son 
WILLIAM. 

Strum.  Nay,  neighbor  Oliver,  if  you  be  so  hot, 
come,  prepare  yourself;  you  shall  find  two  as  stout 
fellows  of  us  as  any  in  all  the  north. 

OH.  No,  by  my  dorth,  neighbor  Strumbo,  Ich  zee 
dat  you  are  a  man  of  small  'zideration,  dat  will  zeek 
to  injure  your  old  vreends,  —  one  of  your  vamiliar 
guests  ;  and,  derefore,  zeeing  your  'pinion  is  to  deal 
withouten  reazon,  Ich  and  my  zon  William  will  take 
dat  course  dat  shall  be  fardest  vrom  reazon.  —  How 
zay  you  —  will  you  have  my  daughter  or  no  ? 

Strum,  A  very  hard  question,  neighbor  ;  but  I  will 
solve  it  as  I  may.  What  reason  have  you  to  demand 
it  of  me  ? 

Will.  Marry,  sir,  what  reason  had  you  when  my 
sister  was  in  the  barn  to J 

Strum.  Mass  !  thou  sayst  true  !  Well,  but  would 
you  have  me  marry  her  therefore  ?  No,  I  scorn  her, 
aud  you  —  and  you.  Ay,  I  scorn  you  all. 

OK.  You  will  not  have  her  then  ? 

Strum.  No,  as  I  am  a  true  gentleman. 

Will.  Then  will  we  school  you,  ere  you  and  we 
part  hence.  [They  fight. 

Enter  MARGERY,  who  snatches  the  staff  out  of  her 
Brother's  hand. 

Strum.  Ay,  you  come  in  pudding-time,  or  else  I 
had  drest  them. 

Mar.  You,  Master  Sauce-box,  Lobcock,  Coxcomb; 
you  Slopsauce,  Lickfingers,  — will  you  not  hear  ? 

Strum.  Who  speak  you  to, —  me  ? 

Mar.  Ay,  sir,  to  you — John  Lackhonesty,  Little- 
Wit,  —  is  it  you  that  will  have  none  of  me  ? 

Strum.  No,  by  my  troth,  Mistress  Nicebice  !  —  how 
fine  you  can  nick-name  me  !  I  think  you  were 
brought  up  in  the  university  of  Bridewell,  you  have 
your  rhetoric  so  ready  at  your  tongue's  end ;  —  as  if 
you  were  never  well  warned  when  you  were  young. 

Mar.  Why,  then,  Goodman  Codshead,  if  you  will 
have  none  of  me,  farewell. 

Strum.  If  you  be  so  plain,  Mistress  Driggle-draggle, 
fare  you  well. 

Mar.  Nay,  Master  Strumbo,  ere  you  go  from  hence 
we  must  have  more  words  ;  —  you  will  have  none  of 
me?  [She strikes  him. 

Strum.  Oh,  my  head,  my  head;  —  leave,  leave, 
leave  ;  —  I  will,  I  will,  I  will. 

Mar.  Upon  that  condition,  I  let  thee  alone. 

Oli.  How  now,  Master  Strumbo;  hath  my  daugh- 
ter taught  you  a  new  lesson  ? 

Strum.  Ay,  but  hear  you,  Goodman  Oliver,  it  will 

I  I  omit  a  simple  grossness. 


not  be  for  my  ease  to  have  my  head  broken  every 
day,  therefore  remedy  this,  and  we  shall  agree. 

Oli.  Well,  zon,  well,  for  you  are  my  zon  now  ;— 
all  shall  be  remedied.  Daughter,  be  friends  with  him. 

[  They  embrace. 

Strum.  You  are  a  sweet  nut !  —  the  devil  crack 
you  [aside].  Masters,  I  think  it  be  my  luck  !  —  my 
first  wife  was  a  loving  quiet  wench,  but  this,  I  think 
would  weary  the  devil.  I  would  she  might  be  burnt 
as  my  other  wife  was  ;  if  not,  I  must  run  to  the  hal- 
ter for  help.  O,  codpiece,  thou  hast  undone  thy  mas- 
ter ;  this  it  is  to  be  meddling  with  warm  plackets. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  \.-The  Camp  of  Locrine. 

Enter  LOCRINE,    CAMBER,   CORIHEIUS,  THRASVMA- 
CHUS,  and  ASSARACHUS. 

Loc.  Now  am  I  guarded  with  a  host  of  men, 
Whose  haughty  courage  is  invincible  !  — 
Now  am  I  hemmed  with  troops  of  soldiers, 
Such  as  might  force  Bellona  to  retire, 
And  make  her  tremble  at  their  puissance  !  — 
Now  sit  I  like  the  mighty  god  of  war, 
When  armed  with  his  coat  of  adamant, 
Mounting  his  chariot  drawn  with  mighty  bulls, 
He  drove  the  Argives  over  Xanthus'  streams. 
Now,  cursed  Humber,  doth  thy  end  draw  nigh ;  — 
Down  goes  the  glory  of  thy  victories, 
And  all  thy  fame,  and  all  thy  high  renown, 
Shall  in  a  moment  yield  to  Locrine's  sword  !  — 
Thy  bragging  banners  crossed  with  argent  streams, 
The  ornaments  of  thy  pavilions, 
Shall  all  be  captivated  by  this  hand  ;  — 
And  thou,  thyself,  at  Albanactus'  tomb, 
Shalt  offered  be,  in  satisfaction 
Of  all  the  wrongs  thou  didst  him  when  he  lived. 
But  canst  thou  tell  me,  brave  Thrasymachus, 
How  far  we  are  distant  [now]  from  Humber's  camp  ? 

Thrasy.  My  lord,  within  yon  foul  accursed  grove 
That  bears  the  tokens  of  our  overthrow, 
This  Humber  hath  entrenched  his  damned  camp. 
March  on,  my  lord,  because  I  long  to  see 
The  treacherous  Scythians  weltering  in  their  gore. 

Loc.  Sweet  Fortune,  favor  Locrine  with  a  smile, 
That  I  may  'venge  my  noble  brother's  death, 
And,  in  the  midst  of  stately  Troynovant, 
I'll  build  a  temple,  to  thy  deity, 
Of  perfect  marble,  and  of  jacinth  stones, 
That  it  shall  pass  the  high  Pyramides, 
Which,  with  their  tops,  surmount  the  firmament. 

Cam.   The   arm-strong  offspring  of  the   'doubted 
Stout  Hercules,  Alcmena's  mighty  son,          [knight, 
That  tamed  the  monsters  of  the  threefold  world, 
And  rid  the  oppressed  from  the  tyrant's  yoke, 
Did  never  show  such  valiantness  in  fight, 
As  I  will  now  for  noble  Albanact. 

Conn.  Full  fourscore  years  hath  Corineius  lived, 
Sometimes  in  war,  sometimes  in  quiet  'peace, 
And  yet  I  feel  myself  to  be  as  strong 
As  erst  I  was  in  summer  of  mine  age, 
Able  to  toss  this  great  unwieldy  club, 
Which  hath  been  painted  with  my  foemen's  brains ; 
And,  with  this  club,  I'll  break  the  strong  array 
Of  Humber,  and  his  straggling  soldiers, 
Or  lose  my  life  amongst  the  thickest  press, 
And  die  with  honor  in  my  latest  days. 


170 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  LOCRINE. 


Yet,  ere  I  die,  they  all  shall  understand, 
What  force  lies  in  stout  Corineius'  hand. 

Thrasy.  And  if  Thrasymachus  detract  the  fight, 
Either  for  weakness  or  for  cowardice, 
Let  him  not  boast  that  Brutus  was  his  came, 
Or  that  brave  Corineius  was  his  sire. 

Loc.  Then,  courage,  soldiers,  for  your  safety  first, 
Next  for  your  peace,  last  for  your  victory.     [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.  —  The  Field  of  Battle. 

Alarums.    Enter  HUBEA  and  SEGAR  on  one  side,  and 
COIUXKIUS  opposite. 

Corin.  Art  thou  that  Humber,  prince  of  fugitives, 
That,  by  thy  treason,  slew'st  young  Albanact? 

Hub.  I  am  his  son  that  slew  young  Albanact, 
And  if  thou  take  not  heed,  proud  Phrygian, 
I'll  send  thy  soul  unto  the  Stygian  lake, 
There  to  complain  of  Humber's  injuries. 

Corin.  You  triumph,  sir,  before  the  victory, 
For,  not  so  soon,  is  Corineius  slain. 
But,  cursed  Scythians,  you  shall  rue  the  day, 
That  ere  you  came  into  Albania.  [They fight. 

So  perish  they  that  envy  Britain's  wealth, 
So  let  them  die  with  endless  infamy, 
And  he  that  seeks  his  sovereign's  overthrow, 
Would  this  my  club  might  aggravate  his  wo. 

[CORINEIUS  slays  both  HUBBA  and 
SEGAR,  and  exit. 

SCENE  VII.—  Another  part  of  the  Field. 
Enter  HUMBER,  in  flight. 

Hum.  Where  may  I  find  some  desert  wilderness, 
Where  I  may  breathe  out  curses  as  I  would, 
A  nd  scare  the  earth  with  my  condemning  voice ;  — 
Where  every  echo's  repercussion 
May  help  me  to  bewail  mine  overthrow, 
And  aid  me  in  my  sorrowful  laments  ?  — 
Where  may  I  find  some  hollow  uncouth  rock, 
Where  I  may  damn,  condemn,  and  ban  my  fill, 
The  heavens,  the  hell,  the  earth,  the  air,  the  fire, 
And  utter  curses  to  the  concave  sky. 
Which  may  infect  the  airy  regions, 
And  light  upon  the  Briton  Locrine's  head  ?  — 
You  ugly  spirits  that  in  Cocytus  mourn, 
And  gnash  your  teeth  with  dolorous  laments ;  — 
You  fearful  dogs  that  in  black  Lethe  howl, 
And  scare  the  ghosts  with  your  wide  open  throats ;  — 
You  ugly  ghosts  that,  flying  from  these  dogs, 
Do  plunge  yourselves  in  Puryphlegiton ;  — 
Come,  all  of  you,  and.  with  your  shrieking  notes 
Accompany  the  Briton's  conquering  host. 
Come  fierce  Erinnys,  horrible  with  snakes, 
Come,  ugly  Furies,  armed  with  your  whips  ;  — 
You,  threefold  judges  of  black  Tartarus, 
And  all  the  army  of  your  hellish  fiends  j  — 
With  new-found  torments  rack  proud  Locrine's  bones  ! 
0  gods  and  stars  !  —  damned  be  the  gods  and  stars, 
That  did  not  drown  me  in  fair  Thetis'  plains  !  — 
Curst  be  the  sea,  that,  with  outrageous  waves, 
With  surging  billows,  did  not  rive  my  ships 
Against  the  rocks  of  high  Ceraunia, 
Or  swallowed  me  into  her  watery  gulf!  — 
Would  God,  we  had  arrived  upon  the  shore 
Where  Polyphemus  and  the  Cyclops  dwell ;  — 
Or,  where  the  bloody  Anthropophagi, 
With  greedy  jaws,  devour  the  wand'ring  wight. 


I  Enter  the  Ghost  of  ALBANACT. 

But  why  comes  Albanactus'  bloody  ghost, 
To  bring  corrosive1  to  our  miseries  ? 
Is't  not  enough  to  suffer  shameful  flight, 
But  we  must  be  tormented  now  with  ghosts  — 
With  apparitions  fearful  to  behold  ? 

Ghost.  Revenge,  revenge  for  blood  ! 

Hum.  So,  naught  will  satisfy  you,  wandering  ghost, 
But  dire  revenge  ;  nothing  but  Humber's  fall ;  — 
Because  he  conquered  you  in  Albany  ? 
Now,  by  my  soul,  Humber  would  be  condemned 
To  Tantalus'  hunger,  or  Ixion's  wheel, 
Or  to  the  vulture  of  Prometheus, 
Rather  than  that  this  murder  were  undone  ! 
When,  as  I  die,  I'll  drag  thy  cursed  ghost 
Through  all  the  rivers  of  foul  Erebus  — 
Through  burning  sulphur  of  the  limbo-lake, 
To  allay  the  burning  fury  of  that  heat 
That  rageth  in  mine  everlasting  soul ! 

[Exit  HUMBER. 

Ghost.   Vindida!  vindicta! 

[Exit, 


ACT    IV. 

SCENE  I. 

Enter  ATE,  as  before.  A  dumb  Show  follows,  repre- 
senting OMPHALE,  Daughter  to  tte  King  of  Lydia, 
having  a  Club  in  her  hand,  and  a  Lion's  Skin  on  her 
back  ;  HERCULES  following  with  a  Distaff.  OMPHA- 
LE  turns,  takes  off  her  Pantofle?  strikes  HERCULES 
on  the  head,  then  departs  ;  he  following  submissively. 
ATE  remains. 

Ate.  Quern  non  Argolid  mandata  severa  tyranni, 
Non  potuit  Juno  vincere,  vicit  amor.* 
Stout  Hercules  the  mirror  of  the  world, 
Son  to  Alcmena  and  great  Jupiter, 
After  so  many  conquests  won  in  field, 
After  so  many  monsters  quelled  by  force  — 
Yielded  his  valiant  heart  to  Omphale  ;  — 
A  fearful  woman,  void  of  manly  strength, 
She  took  the  club,  and  wore  the  lion's  skin : 
He  took  the  wheel,  and  maidenly  'gan  spin.  — 
So  martial  Locrine,  cheered  with  victory. 
Falleth  in  love  with  Humber's  concubine, 
And  so  forgetteth  peerless  Guendeline. 
His  uncle  Corineius  storms  at  this, 
And  forceth  Locrine  for  his  grace  to  sue ; 
Lo !  here  the  sum  :*  the  process  doth  ensue.     [Exit. 

SCENE  II.  —  The  Camp  of  LOCRINE. 

Enter   LOCRINE,    CAMBER,  CORINEIUS,  ASSARACUS, 
THRASYMACHUS,  and  Soldiers. 

Loc.  Thus  from  the  fury  of  Bellona's  broils, 
With  sound  of  drum,  and  trumpet's  melody, 
The  Briton  king  returns  triumphantly  !  — 
The  Scythians,  slain  with  great  Decision, 

1  "  A  corsive"  in  the  folio.  2  "  Pantofle" — slipper. 

3  "  Quern  non  ArgoHci  maniata  severa  tyranni, 
Non  potuit  Juno  vincere,  vicit  amor." 
He  whom  the  tyrant's  mandate  could  not  move, 
Nor  Juno's  self  subdue,  submits  to  love. 

*  "  Sum,"  for  summary  ;  "  process" — the  details  which  are 
to  follow. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  II. 


171 


Do  equalize  the  grass  in  multitude.  [brooks, 

And  with  their  blood  have   stained  the   streaming 

Offering  their  bodies  and  their  dearest  blood 

As  sacrifice  to  Albanactus'  ghost. 

Now,  cursed  Humber,  hast  thou  paid  thy  due 

For  thy  deceits  and  crafty  treacheries, 

For  all  thy  guiles  and  damned  stratagems, 

With  loss  of  life,  and  everduring  shame  ! 

Where  are  thy  horses,  trapped  with  burnished  gold? 

Thy  trampling  coursers,  ruled  with  foaming  bits  ? 

Where  are  thy  soldiers,  strong  and  numberless, 

Thy  valiant  captains,  and  thy  noble  peers  ? 

Even  as  the  country  clowns,  with  sharpest  scythes, 

Do  mow  the  withered  grass  from  off  the  earth  — 

Or,  as  the  ploughman,  with  his  piercing  share, 

Rendeth  the  bowels  of  the  fertile  fields, 

And  rippeth  up  the  roots  with  razors  keen  — 

So  Locrine,  with  his  mighty  curtle-axe, 

Hath  cropped  off  the  heads  of  all  thy  Huns  !  — 

So  Locrine's  peers  have  daunted  all  thy  peers, 

And  drove  thine  host  unto  confusion  — 

That  thou  may'st  suffer  penance  for  thy  fault, 

And  die,  for  murdering  valiant  Albanact. 

Corin.  And  thus,  yea,  thus,  shall  all  the  rest  be 
That  seek  to  enter  Albion  'gainst  our  will,     [served, 
If  the  brave  nation  of  the  Troglodytes  — 
If  all  the  coal-black  Ethiopians  — 
If  all  the  forces  of  the  Amazons  — 
If  all  the  hosts  of  the  barbaric  lands  — 
Should  dare  to  enter  this  our  little  world, — 
Soon  should  they  rue  their  overbold  attempts  : 
That,  after  us,  our  progeny  may  say, 
There  lie  the  beasts  that  sought  t'usurp  our  land  ! 

Loc.  Ay,  they  are  beasts  that  seek  t'usurp  our  land, 
And  like  to  brutish  beasts  they  shall  be  served  ; 
For  mighty  Jove,  the  supreme  King  of  heaven, 
That  guides  the  concourse  of  the  meteors, 
And  rules  the  motion  of  the  azure  sky — 
Fights  always  for  the  Briton's  safety. 
But  stay  :  methinks  I  hear  some  shrieking  noise, 
That  draweth  near  to  our  pavilion. 

Enter  Soldiers,  bringing  in  ESTRILD. 

Est.  What  prince  soe'er,  adorned  with  golden  crown, 
Doth  sway  the  regal  sceptre  in  his  hand, 
And  thinks  no  chance  can  ever  throw  him  down. 

Or  that  his  state  shall  everlasting  stand, 
Let  him  behold  poor  Estrild  in  this  plight, 
The  perfect  platform  of  a  troubled  wight. 

Once  was  I  guarded  with  mavortial  bands, 
Compassed  with  princes  of  the  noblest  blood ; 

Now  am  I  fallen  into  my  foemen's  hands, 
And,  with  my  death,  must  pacify  their  mood. 

Oh,  life  !  the  harbor  of  calamities, 

Oh,  death  !  the  haven  of  all  miseries  ! 

I  could  compare  my  sorrows  to  thy  wo, 
Thou  wretched  queen  of  wretched  Pergamus, 

But  that  thou  viewedst  thy  enemies'  overthrow, 
Nigh  to  the  rock  of  high  Caphareus  ; 

Thou  saw'st  their  death,  and  then  departed'st  thence: 

I  must  abide  the  victor's  insolence  ! 

The  gods,  that  pitied  thy  continual  grief, 
Transformed  thy  corse,  and  with  thy  corse,  thy  care : 

Poor  Estrild  lives,  despairing  of  relief, 
For  friends  in  trouble  are  but  few  and  rare. 


What  said  I  —  fe  w  ?  —  ay,  few,  or  none  at  all, 
For  cruel  death  made  havoc  of  them  all. 

Thrice  happy  they,  whose  fortune  was  so  good, 
To  end  their  Jives,  and  with  their  lives  their  woes  . 

Thrice  hapless  I,  whom  Fortune  so  withstood, 
That  cruelly  she  gave  me  to  my  foes  ! 

Oh,  soldiers  !  —  is  there  any  misery 

To  be  compared  to  Fortune's  treachery?! 

Loc.  Camber,  this  same  should  be  the  Scythian 
queen. 

Cam.  So  we  may  judge  by  her  lamenting  words. 

Loc.  So  fair  a  dame  mine  eyes  did  never  see  !  — 
With  floods  of  wo  o'erwhelmed  she  seems  to  be. 

Cam.  Oh  !  Locrine,  hath  she  not  a  cause  for  grief?8 

Loc.  [aside] .  If  she  hath  come  to  weep  for  Humber's 
And  shed  salt  tears  for  his  [dread]3  overthrow,  [death, 
Locrine  may  well  bewail  his  proper  grief,  — 
Locrine  may  move  his  own  peculiar  wo  ! 
Humber,*  being  conquered,  died  a  speedy  death ; 
I,  being  the  conqueror,  live  a  lingering  life, 
And  feel  the  force  of  Cupid's  sudden  stroke. 
I  gave  him  cause  to  die  a  speedy  death  : 
He  left  me  cause  to  wish  a  speedy  death  ! 
Oh  !  that  sweet  face,  painted  with  Nature's  dye  , 

Those  roseal  cheeks,  mixed  with  a  snowy  white  j 
That  decent  neck,  surpassing  ivory  ;  [spite  — 

Those  comely  breasts,  which  Venus  well  might 
Are  like  to  snares  by  wily  fowlers  wrought, 
Wherein  my  yielding  heart  is  pris'ner  caught. 
The  golden  tresses  of  her  dainty  hair, 

Which  shine  like  rubies  glittering  in  the  sun, 
Have  so  entrapped  poor  Locrine's  lovesick  heart,5 

That  from  the  same  no  way  it  can  be  won. 
How  true  is  that  which  oft  I've  heard  declare, 
One  drachm  of  joy  must  have  a  pound  of  care  .' 

Est.  Hard  is  their  fall,  who,  from  a  golden  crown, 

Are  cast  into  a  sea  of  wretchedness  ! 

Loc.  Hard  is  their  thrall,  who,  [still]  by  Cupid's 
frown, 

Are  wrapped  in  waves  of  endless  carefulness  ! 

Est.  Oh,  kingdom,  subject  to  all  miseries  !6 

Loc.  Oh,  love,  extrem'st  of  all  extremities  ! 

[LOCRINE  sinks  into  a  seal. 

1  Tieck,  the  German  critic,  describes  these  verses  as  "  the 
beautiful-rhymed  stanzas  in  the  fourth  act,  which  so  distinct- 
ly remind  us  of  his  [Shakspeare's]  sonnets,  and  the  '  Venua 
and  Adonis,'  that  these  alone  would  prove  the  genuineness 
of  the  drama."    While  very  far  from  agreeing  with  Tieck,  as 
regarding  these  stanzas  as  conclusive  of  the  authenticity  of 
the  play  as  one  of  Shakspeare's,  we  are  yet  free  to  say  that 
they  do  recall  the  "  Venus  and  Adonis,"  though  evidently 
composed  by  a  less  mature  intellect.    Still,  we  do  not  regard 
them  by  any  means  as  indicative  of  that  higher  poetical 
power  of  which  more  certain  proofs  are  to  be  found  in  thia 
drama,  in  spite  of  all  its  crudities  of  plan  and  composition. 

2  The  words  of  Camber  in  the  old  folio  are,  "  Oh,  Locrine, 
hath  she  not  a  cause  for  to  be  sad  ?"    We  plead  guilty  to  the 
alteration,  which  is  called  for  by  good  taste  and  the  rhythm, 
rather  than  the  necessity  of  the  speech. 

3  The  original  runs  thus :   "And  shed  salt  tears  for  her 
overthrow" — a  line  which  lacks  in  measure,  and  in  which  it 
is  evident  that  we  must  substitute  his  for  "  her." 

*  The  old  folio  reads,  "He  being  conquered,"  meaning 
Humber,  but  really  referring  to  Locrine  himself. 

6  The  rhyme  here  fails  us.    The  reader,  if  he  prefer  it, 
may  read  the  line  thus  : — 

"  Have  BO  entrapped  poor  Locrine's  heart  in  snare." 

0  Estrild,  in  the  old  copies,  is  made  to  say — 

"  O  kingdom,  object  to  all  miseries" — 

which  is  clearly  faulty.  The  kingdom  she  apostrophizes  is 
her  fortunes.  To  speak  of  them  as  a  kingdom—"  a  sea  of 
wretchedness" — as  she  does  in  _an  immediately  preceding 
passage,  "subject  to  all  miseries,1'  would  seem  to  be  appro 
priate  enough. 


172 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  LOCRINE. 


1  Sold.  My  lord,  in  ransacking  the  Scythian  tents, 
I  found  this  lady  ;  and  to  manifest 

The  earnest  zeal  I  bear  unto  your  grace, 
I  here  present  her  to  your  majesty. 

2  Sold.  He  lies,  my  lord  ;  I  found  the  lady  first, 
And  here  present  her  to  your  majesty. 

1  Sold.  Presumptuous  villain,  wilt  thou  take  my 

prize  ?' 

2  Sold.  Nay,  rather  thou  depriv'st  me  of  my  right. 

3  Sold.  Resign  thy  title,  caitiff,  unto  me, 

Or,  with  my  sword,  I'll  pierce  thy  coward  loins. 

2  Sold.  Soft  words,  good  sir ;  'tis  not  enough  to 
A  barking  dog  doth  seldom  strangers  bite,      [speak : 

Loc.  Irreverent  villains,  strive  you  in  our  sight? 
Take  them  hence,  gaoler,  to  the  dungeon  ; 
There  let  them  lie  and  try  their  quarrel  out. 
But  thou,  fair  princess,  be  no  whit  dismayed, 
But  rather  joy  that  Locrine  favors  thee. 

Est.  How  can  he  favor  me  that  slew  my  spouse? 
.     Loc.  The  chance  of  war,  my  love,  took  him  from 
thee. 

Est.  But  Locrine  was  the  causer  of  his  death. 

Loc.  He  was  an  enemy  to  Locrine's  state, 
And  slew  my  noble  brother  Albanact. 

Est.  But  he  was  linked  to  me  in  marriage-bond, 
And  would  you  have  me  love  his  slaughterer  ? 

Loc.  Better  to  love,'  than  not  to  live  at  all. 

Est.  Better  to  die  renowned  for  chastity, 
Than  live  with  shame  and  endless  infamy. 
What  would  the  common  sort  report  of  me, 
If  I  forget  my  love,  and  cleave  to  thee  ? 

Loc.  Kings  need  not  fear  the  vulgar  sentences. 

Est.  But  ladies  must  regard  their  honest  name. 

Loc.  Is  it  a  shame  to  live  in  marriage-bonds  ? 

Est.  No,  but  to  be  a  strumpet  to  a  king. 

Loc.  If  thou  wilt  yield  to  Locrine's  burning  love, 
Thou  shall  be  queen  of  fair  Albania. 

Est.  But  Guendeline  will  undermine  my  state. 

Loc.  Upon  mine  honor,  thou  shalt  have  no  harm. 

Est.  Thenlo!  brave  Locrine,  Estrild  yields  to  thee; 
And,  by  the  gods  whom  thou  dost  invocate, 
By  the  dread  ghost  of  thy  deceased  sire, 
By  thy  right  hand,  and  by  thy  burning  love, 
Take  pity  on  poor  Estrild's  wretched  thrall ! 

Conn.  Hath  Locrine  then  forgot  his  Guendeline, 
That  thus  he  courts  the  Scythian's  paramour  ? 
What !  are  the  words  of  Brute  so  soon  forgot  ? 
Are  my  deserts  so  quickly  out  of  mind  ? 
Have  I  been  faithful  to  thy  sire  now  dead  ? 
Have  I  protected  thee  from  Humbers  hand, 
And  dost  thou  'quite  me  with  ingratitude  ? 
Is  this  the  guerdon  for  my  grievous  wounds? 
Is  this  the  honor  for  my  labors  past ! 
Now.  by  my  sword,  Locrine,  I  swear  to  thee, 
This  injury  of  thine  shall  be  repaid  ! 

Loc.  Uncle,  scorn  you  your  royal  sovereign, 
As  if  we  stood  for  ciphers  in  the  court  ? 
Upbraid  you  me  with  these  your  benefits  ? 
Why,  'twas  a  subject's  duty  so  to  do. 
What  you  have  done  for  our  deceased  sire, 
We  know,  and  all  know,  you  have  your  reward. 

Co/Tin.   Avaunt,  proud  princox,  brav'st  thou  me 
withal? 

1  In  the  original,  the  line  runs — 

"  Better  to  live,  than  not  to  lire  at  all" — 
which  IB  meaningless.    Locrine  means  to  say,  "  Better  to 
love,  and  love  even  your  conqueror,  than  to  forego  life  alto- 
gether," which  might  otherwise  be  her  fate. 


Assure  thyself,  though  thou  be  emperor, 
Thou  ne'er  shalt  carry  this  unpunished. 

Cam.  Pardon  my  brother,  noble  Corineius  ; 
Pardon  this  once,  and  it  shall  be  amended. 

Assar.  Cousin,  remember  Brutus'  latest  words, 
How  he  desired  you  to  cherish  them : 
Let  not  this  fault  so  much  incense  your  mind, 
Which  is  not  yet  passed  all  remedy. 

Corin.  Then,  Locrine,  lo  !  I  reconcile  myself: 
But,  as  thou  lov'st  thy  life,  so  love  thy  wife  ; 
And,2  if  thou  violate  these  promises, 
Blood  and  revenge  shall  light  upon  thy  head  ! 
Come,  let  us  back  to  stately  Troynovant, 
Where  all  these  matters  shall  be  settled. 

Loc.  [aside].  Millions  of  devils  wait  upon  thy  soul, 
Legions  of  spirits  vex  thy  impious  ghost ; 
Ten  thousand  torments  rack  thy  cursed  bones  !  — 
Let  everything  that  hath  the  use  of  breath, 
Be  instruments  and  workers  of  thy  death  !    [Exeunt, 

SCENE  III.  — A  Forest. 

Enter  HUMBER,  his  Garments  torn  and  bloody,  his  Hair 
dishevelled,  and  armed  only  with  a  Spear. 

Hum.  What  basilisk  hath  hatched  in  this  place, 
Where  everything  consumed  is  to  naught  ? 
What  fearful  fury  haunts  these  cursed  groves, 
Where  not  a  root  is  left  for  Humber's  meat  ? 
Hath  fell  Alecto,  with  envenomed  blasts, 
Breathed  forth  poison  on  these  tender  plains  ? 
Hath  triple  Cerberus,  with  contagious  foam, 
Sowed  aconit  among  these  withered  herbs  ? 
Hath  dreadful  Fames,  with  her  charming-rods, 
Brought  barrenness  on  every  fruitful  tree  ? 
What ! .  not  a  root,  nor  fruit,  nor  beast,  nor  bird, 
To  nourish  Humber  in  this  wilderness  ?  — 
What  would  you  more,  you  fiends  of  Erebus  ? 
My  very  entrails  burn  for  want  of  drink  ! 
My  bowels  cry  to  Humber,  Give  us  meat !  — 
But  wretched  Humber  can  bestow  no  meat ; 
These  foul,  accursed  groves  afford  no  meat ; 
This  fruitless  soil,  this  ground,  brings  forth  no  meat ; 
The  gods,  hard-hearted  gods,  yield  me  no  meat ! 
Then  how  can  Humber  give  you  any  meat  ? 

[Retires  back. 

Enter  STEUMBO,  a  Pitchfork  in  his  hand,  and  a  Scotch- 
Cap  on  his  head. 

Strum.  How  do  you,  masters  ?  how  do  you  ?  How 
have  you  'scaped  hanging  this  long  time  ?  I'faith,  I 
have  'scaped  many  a  scouring  this  year,  but,  I  thank 
God,  I  have  past  them  all  with  a  good  couragio,  and 
my  wife  and  I  are  in  great  love  and  charity  now,  I 
thank  my  manhood  and  my  strength :  for  I  will  tell 
you,  masters,  upon  a  certain  day  at  night  I  came 
home,  to  say  the  very  truth,  with  my  stomach  full  of 
wine,  and  ran  up  into  the  chamber,  where  my  wife  so- 
berly sat  rocking  my  little  baby,  leaning  her  back 
against  the  bed,  singing  lullaby.  Now,  when  she  saw 
me  come  with  my  nose  foremost,  thinking  that  I  had 
been  drunk,  as  I  was  indeed,  [she]  snatched  up  a  fagot- 
stick  in  her  hand,  and  came  furiously  marching  tow- 
ard  me  with  a  big  face,  as  though  she  would  have 
eaten  me  at  a  bit  —  thundering  out  these  words  unto 
me :  Thou  drunken  knave,  where  hast  thou  been  so 
long  ?  I  thall  teach  thee  how  to  benight  me  another 
3  «  But"  in  the  old  folio. 


ACT  IV.— SCENE  V. 


173 


time  !  — and  so  she  began  to  play  knaves  trumps. — 
Now,  although  I  trembled,  fearing  she  would  set  her 
ten  commandments1  in  my  face,  I  ran  within  her,  and 
taking  her  lustily  by  the  middle,  I  carried  her  val- 
iantly   ,2  and  so  banished  brawling  for 

ever.  And,  to  see  the  good  will  of  the  wench,  she 
bought  with  her  portion  a  yard  of  land,  and  by  that 
I  am  now  become  one  of  the  richest  men  in  our  par- 
ish. Well,  masters,  what's  o'clock  ?  It  is  now  break- 
fast time  ;  you  shall  see  what  meat  I  have  here  for 
my  breakfast.3  [Sits  down  and  displays  food. 

Hum.  [coming  forward].  Was  ever  land  so  fruitless 

as  this  land  ? 

Was  ever  grove  so  graceless  as  this  grove  ? 
Was  ever  soil  so  barren  as  this  soil  ? 
Oh,  no  !  the  land  where  hungry  Fames  dwelt 
May  no  ways  equalize  this  cursed  land  ; 
No,  even  the  climate  of  the  torrid  zone 
Brings  forth  more  fruit  than  this  accursed  grove. 
Ne'er  came  sweet  Ceres,  ne'er  came  Venus  here  ; 
Triptolemus,  the  god  of  husbandmen, 
Ne'er  sowed  his  seed  in  this  foul  wilderness. 
The  hunger-bitten  dogs  of  Acheron, 
Chased  from  the  ninefold  Puryphlegiton, 
Have  set  their  footsteps  in  this  damned  ground. 
The  iron-hearted  furies,  armed  with  snakes, 
Scattered  huge  hydras  over  all  the  plains, 
Which  have  consumed  the  grass,  the  herbs,  the  trees, 
Which  have  drunk  up  the  water-flowing  springs. 

[STRUMBO,  hearing  the  voice,  starts  up,  puts  his 

meat  in  his  pocket,  and  seeks  to  hide. 
Thou  great  commander  of  the  starry  sky, 
That  guid'st  the  life  of  every  mortal  wight, 
From  the  enclosures  of  the  fleeting  clouds 
Rain  down  some  food,  or  else  I  faint  and  die  ; 
Pour  down  some  drink,  or  else  I  faint  and  die ! 

[Seeing  STRUMBO. 

O  Jupiter  !  hast  thou  sent  Mercury, 
In  clownish  shape,  to  minister  some  food?  — 
Some  meat,  some  meat,  some  meat ! 

Strum.  0,  alas  !  sir,  you  are  deceived.    I  am  not 
Mercury  ;  I  am  Strumbo. 

Hum.  Give  me  some  meat,  villain  !  give  me  some 
Or  'gainst  this  rock  I'll  dash  thy  cursed  brains,  [meat, 
And  rend  thy  bowels  with  my  bloody  hands. 
Give  me  some  meat,  villain  ;  give  me  some  meat ! 

Strum.  By  the  faith  of  my  body,  good  fellow,  I  had 

rather  give  a  whole  ox,  than  that  thou  shouldst  serve 

me  in  that  sort !    Dash  out  my  brains  ?   0,  horrible! 

terrible  !    I  think  I  have  a  quarry  of  stones  in  my 

pocket.  [Aside. 

[As  he  offers  food,  the  Ghost  of  ALBANACT  enters, 

strikes  him  on  the  hand,  and  STRUMBO  runs  out. 

HUMBER  follows  him. 

Ghost.  Lo  here  the  gift  of  fell  ambition, 
Of  usurpation,  and  of  treachery  ! 
Lo  here  the  harms  that  wait  upon  all  those 
That  do  intrude  themselves  in  other  lands, 
Which  are  not  under  their  dominion.       [Exit  Ghost. 

SCENE  IV.  —  A  Chamber  in  the  Royal  Palace. 
Enter  LOCRINE  alone. 

Loc.  Seven  years  hath  aged  Corineius  lived 
To  Locrine's  grief  and  fair  Estrilda's  wo, 

1  Her  ten  fingers ;  the  phrase  is  proverbial. 

«  I  have  here  suppressed  an  offensive  grossness. 

s  This  history  is  addressed  to  the  audience. 


And  seven  years  more  he  hopeth  yet  to  live  !  — 

Oh  !  supreme  Jove,  annihilate  this  thought ! 

Should  he  enjoy  the  air's  fruition  ? 

Should  he  enjoy  the  benefit  of  life  ? 

Should  he  contemplate  [still]  the  radiant  sun, 

That  makes  my  life  equal  to  dreadful  death  I 

Venus,  convey  this  monster  from  the  earth, 

That  disobeyeth  thus  thy  sacred  'bests. 

Cupid,  convey  this  monster  to  dark  hell, 

That  disannuls  thy  mother's  sugared  laws. 

Mars,  with  thy  target  all  beset  with  flames, 

With  murdering  blade,  bereave  him  of  his  life, 

That  hindereth  Locrine  in  his  sweetest  joys  !  — 

And  yet,  for  all  his  diligent  aspect, 

His  wrathful  eyes  piercing  like  lynxes'  eyes, 

Well  have  I  overmatched  his  subtlety. 

Nigh  Deucolitum,  by  the  pleasant  Lee, 

Where  brackish  Thamis  slides  with  silver  streams, 

Making  a  breach  into  the  grassy  downs, 

A  curious  arch,  of  costly  marble  wrought, 

Hath  Locrine  framed  underneath  the  ground ; 

The  walls  whereof,  garnished  with  diamonds, 

With  opals,  rubies,  glistering  emeralds, 

And  interlaced  with  sunbright  carbuncles, 

Lighten  the  room  with  artificial  day  ;  — 

And,  from  the  Lee,  with  water-flowing  pipes, 

The  moisture  is  derived  into  this  arch, 

Where  I  have  placed  fair  Estrild  secretly :  — 

Thither,  eftsoons,  accomp'nied  by  my  page, 

I  visit  covertly  my  heart's  desire, 

Without  suspicion  of  the  meanest  eye ; 

For  love  aboundeth  still  with  policy  ;  — 

And  thither  still  means  Locrine  to  repair, 

Till  Atropos  cut  ofi  mine  uncle's  life.4  [Exit. 

SCENE  V. —  The  entrance  of  a  Cave,  near  which  runs 
the  River,  afterward  the  Humber. 

Enter  HUMBER,  solus. 

Hum.  0  vita  miser o  longa,fcelici  brevis  ! 

Eheu  malorum  fames  extremum  malumfi 
Long  have  I  lived  in  this  desert  cave, 
With  eating  haws  and  miserable  roots, 
Devouring  leaves  and  beastly  excrements  ; 
Caves  were  my  beds,  and  stones  my  pillow-biers, 
Fear  was  my  sleep,  and  horror  was  my  dream  j 
For  still  methought,  at  every  boisterous  blast, 
Now  Locrine  comes — now,  Humber,  thou  must  die  .' 
So  that,  for  fear  and  hunger,  Humber's  mind 
Can  never  rest,  but  always  trembling  stands. 
Oh,  what  Danubius  now  may  quench  my  thirst  ? 
What  Euphrates,  what  lightfoot  Euripus, 
May  now  allay  the  fury  of  that  heat, 
Which,  raging  in  my  entrails,  eats  me  up  ? 
Ye  ghastly  devils  of  the  ninefold  Styx, 
Ye  damned  ghosts  of  joyless  Acheron, 
Ye  mournful  souls,  vexed  in  Abyssus'  vaults, 
Ye  coal-black  devils  of  Avernus'  pond  — 

*  Milton  thus  describes  this  artificial  grotto,  and  the  secret 
intercourse  of  Estrild  and  Locrine  :  Locrine,  "  ofttimes  re- 
tiring, as  to  some  private  sacrifice,  through  vaults  and  pas- 
sages made  under  ground,  and  seven  years  thus  enjoying 
her,  had  by  her  a  daughter  equally  fair,  whose  name  was 
Sabra." 

6  It  is  difficult  to  say  why  these  commonplace  lines  were 
not  done  originally  into  English.  They  are  wholly  indepen- 
dent of  each  other  :  "  O  vita,  misero  longa,  ftelici  brevis  .'"— 
O  life  I  long  to  the  wretched — to  the  happy,  short !  "  Eheu 
malorum  fames  extremum  malwn" — Alas  !  ot  all  evils,  hunger 
is  the  worst 


174 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  LOCRINE. 


Come,  with  your  flesh-hooks  rend  my  famished  arms, 
These  arms  that  have  sustained  their  master's  life  j 
Come,  with  your  razors  rip  my  bowels  up  ; 
With  your  sharp  fire-forks  crack  my  starved  bones  ! 
Use  me  as  ye  will,  so  Humber  may  not  live  !  — 
Accursed  gods,  that  rule  the  starry  poles, 
Accursed  Jove,  King  of  the  accursed  gods  — 
Cast  down  your  lightning  on  poor  Humber's  head, 
That  I  may  leave  this  death-like  life  of  mine  ! — 
What !  hear  you  not,  and  shall  not  Humber  die? 
Nay,  I  will  die,  though  all  the  gods  say  nay. 
And,  gentle  Aby,  take  my  troubled  corpse  — 
Take  it  and  keep  it  from  all  mortal  eyes, 
That  none  may  say,  when  I  have  lost  rny  breath, 
The  very  floods  conspired  'gainst  Humber's  death! 

[Flings  himself  into  the  river.* 

Enter  the  Ghost  of  ALBANACT. 

Ghost.  En  ctsdem  sequitur  cades,  in  cade  quiesco  /* 
Humber  is  dead  !  — joy  heavens,  leap  earth,  dance 
Now  may'st  thou  reach  thy  apples,  Tantalus,  [trees ! 
And  with  'em  feed  thy  hunger-bitten  limbs  ; 
Now,  Sysiphus,  leave  the  tumbling  of  thy  rock, 
And  rest  thy  restless  bones  upon  the  same  ; 
Unbind  Ixion,  cruel  Rhadamanth, 
And  lay  proud  Humber  on  the  whirling  wheel ! 
Back  will  I  post  to  hell-mouth  Taenarus, 
And  pass  Cocytus,  to  the  Elysian  fields, 
And  tell  my  father  Brutus  of  these  news. 

[Exit  Ghost. 


ACT    V. 

SCENE  I. 

Enter  ATE,  as  before.  Dumb  Show:  JASOW  leading 
CREON'S  Daughter  ;  MEDEA  following,  hath  a  Gar- 
land in  her  hand,  and,  putting  it  on  CREON'S  Daugh- 
ter's head,  setteth  it  on  fire;  then  killing  JASON  and 
her,  departs. 

Ate.  Non  tarn  Trinacriis  exastuat  &tna  cavernis, 

Ltcsa  furtivo  quam  cor  mulieris  amore.3 
Medea,  seeing  Jason  leave  her  love, 
And  choose  the  daughter  of  the  Theban  king, 
Went  to  her  devilish  charms  to  work  revenge j 
And,raising  up  the  triple  Hecate, 
With  all  the  rout  of  the  condemned  fiends, 
Framed  a  garland  by  her  magic  skill, 
With  which  she  wrought  Jason  and  Creon's  ill. 
So  Guendeline,  seeing  herself  misused, 
And  Humber's  paramour  possess  her  place, 
Flies  to  the  dukedom  of  Comubia, 
And  with  her  brother,  stout  Thrasymachus, 
Gathering  a  power  of  Cornish  soldiers, 
Gives  battle  to  her  husband  and  his  host, 
Nigh  to  the  river  of  great  Mercia  !  — 

1  Milton's  history  thus  :  "  Locrine  and  his  brother  go  out 
•gainst  Humber,  who,  now  inarching  onward,  was  by  them 
defeated,  and  in  a  river  drowned,  which  to  this  day  retains 
his  name." 

s  Lo  I  death  to  death  succeeds— in  death  I  rest 
3  "  Non  tarn  Trinacriis  excestuat  JEtna.  cavernis, 
Lacsat  furtivo  quam  cor  muliens  amore  f — 
Not  with  such  tumult,  in  Sicilia's  caves. 
Does  jEtna  rage,  as  doth  the  woman's  heart, 
When  roused  to  madness  by  clandestine  fires  I 


The  chances  of  this  dismal  massacre, 
That  which  ensueth  shortly  will  unfold. 


[Exit 


SCENE  II.—  A  Chamber  in  the  Royal  Palace. 

Enter  LOCRINE,    CAMBER,  ASSARACUS,  and  THHA 
SYMACHUS. 

Assar.  But  tell  me,  cousin,  died  my  brother  so  ? 
Now,  who  is  left  to  hapless  Albion, 
That,  as  a  pillar,  might  uphold  our  state  — 
That  might  strike  terror  to  our  daring  foes  ? 
Now,  who  is  left  to  hapless  Britany, 
That  might  defend  her  from  the  barbarous  hands 
Of  those  that  still  desire  herTuinous  fall, 
And  seek  to  work  her  downfall  and  decay  ? 

Cam.  Ay,  uncle,  death's  our  common  enemy ; 
And  none  but  death  can  match  our  matchless  power. 
Witness  the  fall  of  Albioneius'  crew  } 
Witness  the  fall  of  Humber  and  his  Huns ; 
And  this  foul  death  hath  now  increased  our  wo, 
By  taking  Corineius  from  this  life, 
And  in  his  room  leaving  us  worlds  of  care. 

Thrasy.  But  none  may  more  bewail  his  mournful 
Than  I,  that  am  the  issue  of  his  loins  !  [hearse 

Now,  foul  befall  that  cursed  Humber's  throat, 
That  was  the  causer  of  his  lingering  wound. 

Loc.  Tears  can  not  raise  him  from  the  dead  again. 
But  where's  my  lady-mistress,  Guendeline  ? 

Thrasy.  In  Cornwall,  Locrine,  is  my  sister  now, 
Providing  for  my  father's  funeral. 

Loc.  And  let  her  there  provide  her  mourning  weeds, 
And  mourn  for  ever  her  own  widowhood : 
Ne'er  shall  she  come  within  our  palace-gate, 
To  countercheck  brave  Locrine  in  his  love. 
Go,  boy,  to  Deucolitum,  down  the  Lee, 
Unto  the  arch  where  lovely  Estrild  lies : 
Bring  her  and  Sabren  straight  unto  the  court ; 
She  shall  be  queen  in  Guendeline's  room. 
Let  others  wail  for  Corineius'  death : 
I  mean  not  so  to  macerate  my  mind 
For  him  that  barred  me  from  my  heart's  desire.* 

Thrasy.  Hath  Locrine  then  forsook  his  Guendeline  ? 
Is  Corineius'  death  so  soon  forgot  ? 
If  there  be  gods  in  heaven,  as  sure  there  be  — 
If  there  be  fiends  in  hell,  as  needs  there  must  — 
They  will  revenge  this  thy  notorious  wrong, 
And  pour  their  plagues  upon  thy  cursed  head  ! 

Loc.  What,  prat'st  thou,  peasant,  to  thy  sovereign  ? 
Or  art  thou  strucken  in  some  ecstasy  ? 
Dost  thou  not  tremble  at  our  royal  looks  ? 
Dost  thou  not  quake  when  mighty  Locrine  frowns  ? 
Thou  beardless  boy,  were't  not  that  Locrme  scorns 
To  vex  his  mind  with  such  a  heartless  child, 
With  the  sharp  point  of  this  my  battle-axe 
I'd  send  thy  soul  to  Puryphlegiton.  *, 

Thrasy.  Though  I  be  young  and  of  a  tender  age, 
Yet  will  I  cope  with  Locrine  when  he  dares. 
My  noble  father,  with  his  conquering  sword, 
Slew  the  two  giant  kings  of  Aquitaine  : 
Thrasymachus  is  not  degenerate, 
That  he  should  fear  and  tremble  at  the  looks 
Or  taunting  words  of  a  venerean  squire. 

Loc.  Menacest  thou  thy  royal  sovereign  ? 
Uncivil,  not  beseeming  such  as  thou. 

•«  "But  when  once  his  [Locrine's]  fear  was  _  off,  by  tha 
death  of  Corineius,  not  content  with  secret  enjoyment,  di 
vorcing  Gwendolen,  he  made  Estrilde  now  his  queen." 

MILTON. 


ACT  V.— SCENE  IV. 


175 


Injurious  traitor  —  for  he  is  no  less 

Tha1  at  defiance  standeth  with  his  king  — 

Leave  these  thy  taunts,  —  leave  these  thy  bragging 

words,  — 
Unless  thou  mean'st  to  leave  thy  wretched  life. 

Thrasy.  If  princes  stain  their  glorious  dignity 
With  ugly  spots  of  monstrous  infamy, 
They  lose  their  former  estimation, 
And  throw  themselves  into  a  hell  of  hate. 

Loc.  Wilt  thou  abuse  my  gentle  patience, 
As  though  thou  didst  our  high  displeasure  scorn  ? 
Proud  boy,  —  that  thou  may'st  know  thy  prince  is 

moved  — 

Yea,  greatly  moved,  at  this  thy  swelling  pride,  — 
We  banish  thee  for  ever  from  our  court. 

Thrasy.  Then,  losel  Locrine,  look  unto  thyself : 
Thrasymachus  will  revenge  this  injury.  [Exit. 

Loc.  Farewell,  proud  boy,  and  learn  to  use  thy 
tongue. 

Assar.  Alas !  my  lord,  you  should  have  called  to 
The  latest  words  that  Brutus  spake  to  you :       [mind 
How  he  desired  you,  by  the  obedience 
That  children  ought  to  bear  [unto]  their  sire, 
To  love  and  favor  Lady  Guendeline : 
Consider  this,  that,  if  the  injury 
Do  move  her  mind,  as  certainly  it  will, 
War  and  dissension  follow  speedily. 
What  though  her  power  be  not  so  great  as  yours, 
Have  you  not  seen  a  mighty  elephant 
Slain  by  the  biting  of  a  silly  mouse  ?  — 
Even  so  the  chance  of  war  inconstant  is. 

Loc.  Peace,  uncle,  peace,  and  cease  to  talk  hereof; 
For  he  that  seeks,  by  whispering  this  or  that, 
To  trouble  Locrine  in  his  sweetest  life, 
Let  him  persuade  himself  to  die  the  death. 

Enter  the  Page,  with  ESTRILD  and  SABREN. 

Esl.  O,  say  me,  page,  [and]  tell  me,  where's  the 
Wherefore  doth  he  send  for  me  to  the  court  ?  [king  ? 
Is  it  to  die  ?  —  is  it  to  end  my  life  ? 
Say  me,  sweet  boy :  tell  me,  and  do  not  feign. 

Page.  No,  trust  me,  madam  ;  if  you  will  credit  the 
little  honesty  that  is  yet  left  me,  there  is  no  such 
danger  as  you  fear  ;  —  but  prepare  yourself:  yonder's 
the  king. 

Est.  Then,  Estrild.  lift  thy  dazzled  spirits  up, 
And  bless  that  blessed  time,  that  day,  that  hour, 
That  warlike  Locrine  first  did  favor  thee. — 
Peace  to  the  king  of  Britany  —  my  love  !  — 
Peace  to  all  those  that  love  and  favor  him  ! 

[She  kneels. 

Loc.  [raising  her].  Doth  Estrild  fall,  with  such  sub- 
Before  her  servant,  king  of  Albion  ?  [mission, 
Arise,  fair  lady,  leave  this  lowly  cheer  ; 
Lift  up  those  looks  that  cherish  Locrine's  heart, 
That  I  may  freely  view  that  roseal  face 
Which  so  entangled  hath  my  lovesick  breast. 
Now,  to  the  court,  where  we  will  court  it  out, 
And  pass  the  night  and  day  in  Venus'  sports. 
Frolic,  brave  peers  ;  be  joyful  with  your  king  ! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.—  The  Camp  of  GUENDELINE. 

Enter  GUENDELINE,  THRASYMACHUS,  MADAN,  and 
Soldiers. 

Guen.  Ye  gentle  winds,  that,  with  your  modest 
blasts, 

12 


Pass  through  the  circuit  of  the  heavenly  vault, 

Enter  the  clouds  unto  the  throne  of  Jove, 

And  bear  my  prayer  to  his  all-hearing  ears  !  — 

For  Locrine  hath  forsaken  Guendeline, 

And  learned  to  love  proud  Humber's  concubine. 

Ye  happy  sprites  that,  in  the  concave  sky, 

With  pleasant  joy,  enjoy  your  sweetest  love, 

Shed  forth  those  tears  with  me,  which  then  you  shed, 

When  first  you  wooed  your  ladies  to  your  wills  !  — 

Those  tears  are  fittest  for  my  woful  case, 

Since  Locrine  shuns  my  nothing-pleasant  face. 

Blush  heavens,  blush  sun,  and  hide  thy  shining  beams, 

Shadow  thy  radiant  locks  in  gloomy  clouds  — 

Deny  thy  cheerful  light  unto  the  world, 

Where  nothing  reigns  but  falsehood  and  deceit ! 

What  said  I  ?  —  falsehood  ?  —  ay,  that  filthy  crime  : 

For  Locrine  hath  forsaken  Guendeline. 

Behold  !  the  heavens  do  wail  for  Guendeline  : 

The  shining  sun  doth  blush  for  Guendeline  : 

The  liquid  air  doth  weep  for  Guendeline  : 

The  very  ground  doth  groan  for  Guendeline  ! 

Ay,  they  are  milder  than  is  Britain's  king, 

For  he  rejecteth  luckless  Guendeline. 

Thrasy.  Sister !   complaints  are  bootless  in  this 

cause  !  — 

This  open  wrong  must  have  an  open  plague ; 
This  plague  must  be  repaid  with  grievous  war ; 
This  war  must  finish  [soon]  with  Locrine's  death : 
His  death  will  soon  extinguish  our  complaints. 

Guen.  0  no,  his  death  will  more  augment  my  woes  ! 
He  was  my  husband,  brave  Thrasymaehus  ; 
More  dear  to  me  than  th'apple  of  mine  eye  ; 
Nor  can  I  find  in  heart  to  work  his  scath. 

Thrasy.  Madam,  if  not  your  proper  injuries, 
Nor  my  exile,  can  move  you  to  revenge  — 
Think  on  our  father  Corineius'  words  ;  — 
His  words  to  us  stand  always  for  a  law. 
Should  Locrine  live,  that  caused  my  father's  death  ? 
Should  Locrine  live,  that  now  divorceth  you  ? 
The  heavens,  the  earth,  the  air,  the  fire,  reclaims : 
And  then  why  should  we  all  deny  the  same  ? 

Guen.  Then,  henceforth,  farewell  womanish  com- 
plaints !  — 

All  childish  pity  henceforth,  then,  farewell !  — 
But,  cursgd  Locrine,  look  unto  thyself, 
For  Nemesis,  the  mistress  of  revenge, 
Sits  armed  at  all  points  on  our  dismal  blades  ; 
And  cursed  Estrild,  that  inflamed  his  heart, 
Shall,  if  I  live,  die  a  reproachful  death  ! 

Madan.  Mother,  though  nature  makes  me  to  lament 
My  luckless  father's  froward  lechery — 
Yet  —  for  he  wrongs  my  lady-mother  thus  — 
I,  if  I  could,  myself  would  work  his  death. 

Thrasy.  See,  madam,  see,  the  desire  of  revenge 
Is  in  the  children  of  a  tender  age.  — 
Forward,  brave  soldiers,  into  Mercia, 
Where  we  shall  brave  the  coward  to  his  face. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  IV.—  The  Camp  of  LOCRINE. 

Enter  LOCRINE,  ESTHILD,  SABREN,  ASSARACUS,  and 
Soldiers. 

Loc.  Tell  me,  Assaracus,  are  the  Cornish  chuffs 
In  such  great  number  come  to  Mercia? 
And  have  they  pitched  there  their  [clownish]  host, 
So  close  unto  our  royal  mansion  ? 


176 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  LOCRINE. 


Asaar,  They  are,  my  lord,  and  mean  incontinent 
To  bid  defiance  to  your  majesty. 

Loc.  It  makes  me  laugh,  to  think  that  Guendeline 
Should  have  the  heart  to  come  in  arms  against  me. 

Est.  Alas  !  my  lord,  the  horse  will  run  amain 
When  as  the  spur  doth  gall  him  to  the  bone  ! 
Jealousy,  Locrine,  hath  a  wicked  sting. 

Loc.  Say'st  thou  so,  Estrild  —  beauty's  paragon  ? 
Well,  we  will  try  her  choler  to  the  proof, 
And  make  her  know,  Locrine  can  brook  no  braves. 
March  on,  Assaracus :  thou  must  lead  the  way, 
And  bring  us  to  their  proud  pavilion.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  V.—  The  Field  of  Battle. 

Thunder  and  Lightning.    Enter  the  Ghost  of  COEIN- 
EIUS. 

Ghost.  Behold  !  the  circuit  of  the  azure  sky 
Throws  forth  sad  throbs,1  and  grievously  suspires, 
Prejudicating  Locrine's  overthrow: 
The  fire  casteth  forth  sharp  darts  of  flames  j 
The  great  foundation  of  the  triple  world 
Trembleth  and  quaketh  with  a  mighty  noise, 
Presaging  bloody  massacres  at  hand. 
The  wand'ring  birds  that  flutter  in  the  dark, 
When  hellish  Night,  in  cloudy  chariot  seated, 
Casteth  her  mists  on  shady  Tellus'  face, 
With  sable  mantles  covering  all  the  earth— 
Now  fly  abroad,  amid  the  cheerful  day, 
Foretelling  some  unwonted  misery. 
The  snarling  curs  of  darkened  Tartarus, 
Sent  from  Avernus'  ponds  by  Rhadamanth, 
With  howling  ditties  pester  every  wood. 
The  watery  ladies,4  and  the  lightfoot  fawns, 
And  all  the  rabble  of  the  woody  nymphs, 
Trembling,  all  hide  themselves  in  shady  groves, 
And  shroud  themselves  in  hideous,  hollow  pits. 
The  boisterous  Boreas  thund'reth  forth  revenge : 
The  stony  rocks  cry  out  for  sharp  revenge  : 
The  thorny  bush  pronounceth  dire  revenge  !  — 

[Alarums. 

Now,  Corineius,  stay  and  see  revenge  — 
And  feed  thy  soul  with  Locrine's  overthrow ! 
Behold,  they  come  ;  the  trumpets  call  them  forth ; 
The  roaring  drums  summon  the  soldiers  ! 
Lo  where  their  army  glistereth  on  the  plains ! 
Throw  forth  thy  lightnings,  mighty  Jupiter, 
And  pour  thy  plagues  on  cursed  Locrine's  head  ! 

[Ghost  disappears. 

Enter  LOCRINE,  ESTRILD,  ASSARACUS,  SABREN,  and 
Soldiers,  on  one  side;  THHASTMACHUS,  GUENDE- 
LINE, MADAN,  and  their  Followers,  opposite. 

Loc.  What !  is  the  tiger  started  from  his  cave  ? 
Is  Guendeline  come  from  Cornubia, 
That  thus  she  braveth  Locrine  to  the  teeth?  — 
And  hast  thou  found  thine  armor,  pretty  boy, 
Accompanied  with  these  thy  straggling  mates  ? 
Believe  me,  but  this  enterprise  was  bold, 
And  well  deserveth  commendation. 

Guen.  Ay,  Locrine,  trait 'rous  Locrine,  we  are  come, 
With  full  pretence  to  seek  thine  overthrow. 

1  A  correspondent  suggests  that  we  should  read  lobt  for 
"  throbs."  Either  word  will  answer.  Perhaps  we  might 
read,  "  throes  with  sad  throbs."  The  last  two  words,  which 
were  "  grievous  suspire,"  I  have  altered  to  grievously  sus- 
pires—a correction  absolutely  called  for  by  the  verse. 

t  A  phrase  which  would  scarcely  satisfy  naiad  or  nereid. 


What  have  I  done,  that  thou  shouldst  scorn  me  thu»  ? 

What  have  I  said,  that  thou  shouldst  me  reject? 

Have  I  been  disobedient  to  thy  words  ? 

Have  I  bewrayed  thy  arcane  secrecy  ? 

Have  I  dishonored  thy  marriage-bed 

With  filthy  crimes  or  with  lascivious  lusts  ?  — 

Nay,  it  is  thou  that  hast  dishonored  it : 

Thy  filthy  mind,  o'ercome  with  filthy  lusts, 

Yieldeth  unto  affection's  filthy  darts. 

Unkind,  thou  wrong'st  thy  first  and  truest  fair  ;' 

Unkind,  thou  wrong'st  thy  best  and  dearest  friend; 

Unkind,  thou  scorn'st  all  skilful  Brutus'  laws, 

Forgetting,  father,  uncle,  and  thyself. 

Est.  Believe  me,  Locrine,  but  the  girl  is  wise, 
And  well  would  seem  to  make  a  vestal  nun : 
How  finely  frames  she  her  oration  ! 

Thrasy.  Locrine,  we  came  not  here  to  fight  with 
Words,  that  can  never  win  the  victory ;       [words — 
But  —  for  you  are  so  merry  in  your  frumps  — 
Unsheath  your  swords,  and  try  it  out  by  force, 
That  we  may  see  who  hath  the  better  hand. 

Loc.  Think'st  thou  to  dare  me, bold  Thrasymachus  ? 
Think'st  thou  to  fear  me  with  thy  taunting  braves, 
Or  do  we  seem  too  weak  to  cope  with  thee  ? 
Soon  shall  I  show  thee  my  fine-cutting  blade, 
And  with  my  sword,  the  messenger  of  death, 
Seal  thee  a  quittance  for  thy  bold  attempts.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  VI.— The  entrance  of  a  Cave. 
Alarums.    Enter  LOCRINE  and  ESTRILD,  inflight. 

Loc.  0  fair  Estrilda,  we  have  lost  the  field  ! 
Thrasymachus  hath  won  the  victory, 
And  we  are  left  to  be  a  laughing-stock, 
Scoffed  at  by  those  that  are  our  enemies. 
Ten  thousand  soldiers,  armed  with  sword  and  shield, 
Prevail  against  an  hundred  thousand  men. 
Thrasymachus,  incensed  with  fuming  ire, 
Rageth  amongst  the  faintheart  soldiers, 
Like  to  grim  Mars,  when,  covered  with  bis  targe, 
He  fought  with  Diomedes  in  the  field, 
Close  by  the  banks  of  silver  Simois.  [Alarums. 

0,  lovely  Estrild,  now  the  chase  begins  : 
Ne'er  shall  we  see  the  stately  Troynovant, 
Mounted  with  coursers  garnished  all  with  pearls  ; 
Ne'er  shall  we  view  the  fair  Concordia, 
Unless  as  captives  we  be  thither  brought. 
Shall  Locrine  then  be  taken  prisoner 
By  such  a  youngling  as  Thrasymachus  ? 
Shall  Guendeline  [then]  captivate  my  love  ? 
Ne'er  shall  mine  eyes  behold  that  dismal  hour  ; 
Ne'er  will  I  view  that  ruthful  spectacle  ; 
For,  with  my  sword,  this  sharpest  curtle-axe, 
I'll  cut  in  sunder  my  accursed  heart ! 
But  0,  ye  judges  of  the  ninefold  Styx, 
Which,  with  incessant  torments,  rack  the  ghosts 
Within  the  bottomless  Abyssus'  pits  ; 
Ye  gods,  commanders  of  the  heavenly  spheres, 
Whose  will  and  laws  irrevocable  stand  — 
Forgive,  forgive  this  foul,  accursed  sin  !  — 
Forget,  0  gods,  this  foul,  condemned  fault !  — 
And  now,  my  eword,  that,  in  so  many  fights, 

[Kisses  his  sword. 

Hast  saved  the  life  of  Brutus  and  his  son, 
End  now  his  life  that  wisheth  still  for  death., 
Work  now  his  death  that  hateth  still  his  life  ! 
»  "  Fear"  in  former  editions. 


ACT  V.— SCENE  VI. 


177 


Farewell,  fair  Estrild,  beauty's  paragon, 
Framed  in  the  front  of  forlorn  miseries, 
Ne'er  shall  mine  eyes  behold  thy  sunshine  eyes, 
But  when  we  meet  in  the  Elysian  fields : 
Thither  I  go  before  with  hastened  pace. 
Farewell,  vain  world,  and  thy  enticing  snares  ! 
Farewell,  foul  sin,  and  thy  enticing  pleasures  ! 
And  welcome,  death,  the  end  of  mortal  smart, 
Welcome  to  Locrine's  overburdened  heart ! 

[Stabs  himself. 

Est.  Break,  heart,  with  sobs  and  grievous  [sad]  sus- 
pires ! 

Stream  forth,  ye  tears,  from  out  my  wat'ry  eyes  ! 
Help  me  to  mourn  for  warlike  Locrine's  death  j 
Pour  down  your  tears,  you  watery  regions, 
For  mighty  Locrine  is  bereft  of  life  ! 
O,  fickle  fortune  !  0,  unstable  world  ! 
What  else  are  all  things,  that  this  globe  contains, 
But  a  confused  chaos  of  mishaps  ? 
Wherein,  as  in  a  glass,  we  plainly  see 
That  all  our  life  is  but  a  tragedy. 
Since  mighty  kings  are  subject  to  mishap  — 
Since  martial  Locrine  is  bereft  of  life  — 
Shall  Estrild  live,  then,  after  Locrine's  death  ? 
Shall  love  of  life  bar  her  from  Locrine's  sword  ? 
O  no  !  —  this  sword,  that  hath  bereft  his  life, 
Shall  now  deprive  me  of  my  fleeting  soul : 
Strengthen  these  hands,  O  mighty  Jupiter  ! 
That  I  may  end  my  woful  misery  J 
Locrine,  I  come  !  Locrine,  I  follow  thee  I1 

{Kills  herself. 

Alarums    Enter  SABREW. 

Sab.  What  doleful  sight,  what  ruthful  spectacle, 
Hath  Fortune  offered  to  my  hapless  heart  ? 
My  father  slain  with  such  a  fatal  sword  !  — 
My  mother  murdered  by  a  mortal  wound  !  — 
What  Thracian  dog,  what  barbarous  myrmidon, 
Would  not  relent  at  such  a  ruthful  case  ? 
What  fierce  Achilles,  what  hard,  stony  flint, 
Would  not  bemoan  this  mournful  tragedy  ? 
Locrine,  the  map  of  magnanimity, 
Lies  slaughtered  in  his  foul,  accursed  cave ;  — 
Estrild,  the  perfect  pattern  of  renown — 
Nature's  sole  wonder — in  whose  beauteous  breasts 
All  heavenly  grace  and  virtue  were  enshrined  — 
Both  massacred,  are  dead  within  this  cave  ; 
And  with  them  dies  fair  Pallas  and  sweet  Love  ! 
Here  lies  a  sword,  and  Sabren  hath  a  heart : 
This  blessed  sword  shall  cut  my  curse"d  heart, 
And  bring  my  soul  unto  my  parents'  ghosts — 
That  they  that  live,  and  view  our  tragedy, 
May  mourn  our  case  with  mournful  plauditees. 

[Offers  to  kill  herself. 

Ah  me  !  my  virgin's  hands  are  too,  too  weak, 
To  penetrate  the  bulwark  of  my  breast ! 
My  fingers,  used  to  tune  the  amorous  lute, 
Are  not  of  force  to  hold  this  steely  glaive  ;  — 
So  am  I  left  to  wail  my  parents'  death, 
Not  able  for  to  work  my  proper  death  !  — 
Ah,  Locrine,  honored  for  thy  nobleness  ! 

i  Milton  thus :  "  Guendolen,  all  in  rage,  departs  into  Corn- 
wall, where  Madan,  the  son  she  had  by  Locrine,  was  hith- 
erto brought  up  by  Corineius,  his  grandfather ;  and,  gather- 
ing an  army  of  her  father's  friends  and  subjects,  gives  battle 
to  her  husband,  by  the  river  Sture  :  wherein  Locrine,  shot 
with  an  arrow,  ends  his  life." 


Ah,  Estrild,  famous  for  thy  constancy ! 

Ill  may  they  fare  that  wrought  your  mortal  ends  ! 

[Retires  back. 

Enter  GUENDELINE,  THRASYMACHUS,  MADAN,  and 
Soldiers. 

Guen.  Search,  soidiers,  search  ! — find  Locrine  and 

his  love .' 

Find  the  proud  strumpet,  Humber's  concubine, 
That  I  may  change  those  her  so  pleasing  looks, 
Into  a  pale  and  ignominious  aspect. 
Find  me  the  issue  of  their  curse"d  love — 
Find  me  young  Sabren,  Locrine's  only  joy — 
That  I  may  glut  my  mind  with  lukewarm  blood, 
Swiftly  distilling  from  the  bastard's  breast ! 
My  father's  ghost  still  haunts  me  for  revenge, 
Crying,  Revenge  my  over-hastened  death  ! 
My  brother's  exile,  and  mine  own  divorce, 
Banish  remorse  clean  from  my  brazen  heart  — 
All  mercy  from  mine  adamantine  breast. 

Thrasy.  Nor  doth  thy  husband,  lovely  Guendeline, 
That  wonted  was  to  guide  our  starless  steps, 
Enjoy  this  light.    See  where  he  murdered  lies, 
By  luckless  lot  and  froward,  frowning  fate  ;  — 
And  by  him  lies  his  lovely  paramour, 
Fair  Estrild,  gore"d  with  a  dismal  sword ;  — 
And,  as  it  seems,  both  murdered  by  themselves, 
Clasping  each  other  in  their  feebled  arms, 
With  loving  zeal  —  as  if,  for  company, 
Their  uncontented  corses  were  content 
To  pass  foul  Styx  in  Charon's  ferry-boat. 

Guen.  And  hath  proud  Estrild  then  prevented  me  ? 
Hath  she  escaped  Guendelina's  wrath, 
By  violently  cutting  off  her  life  ? 
Would  God  she  had  the  monstrous  Hydra's  lives, 
That  every  hour  she  might  have  died  a  death, 
Worse  than  the  swing  of  old  Ixion's  wheel — 
And  every  hour  revive  to  die  again  ! 
As  Titius,  bound  to  houseless  Caucason, 
Doth  feed  the  substance  of  his  own  mishap, 
And  every  day,  for  want  of  food,  doth  die, 
And,  every  night,  doth  live  again  to  die. 
But  stay :  me  thinks  I  hear  some  fainting  voice, 
Mournfully  weeping  for  their  luckless  death. 

[SABREN  comes  forward. 

Sab.  Ye  mountain-nymphs,  that  in  these  deserts 

reign, 

Cease  from  your  hasty  chase  of  savage  beasts ; 
Prepare  to  see  a  heart,  oppressed  with  care  ; 
Address  your  ears  to  hear  a  mournful  style : 
No  human  strength,  no  words,3  can  work  my  weal, 
Care  in  my  heart  so  tyrant-like  doth  deal. 
Ye  Dryades  and  lightfoot  Satyri — 
Ye  gracious  fairies,  who,  at  eventide, 
Your  closets  leave  with  heavenly  beauty  stored, 
And  on  your  shoulders  spread  your  golden  locks  — 
Ye  savage  bears  in  caves  and  darkened  dens  — 
Come,  wail  with  me  the  martial  Locrine's  death  ; 
Come,  mourn  with  me  for  beauteous  Estrild's  death  ! 
Ah  !  loving  parents,  little  do  ye  know 
What  sorrow  Sabren  suffers  for  your  thrall ! 

Guen.  But  may  this  be,  and  is  it  possible  ?  — 

3  "  Work"  is  the  word  in  the  folio.  A  correspondent  sug- 
gests worth.  I  prefer  words,  as  she  has  just  before,  in  the 
previous  line,  appealed  to  the  mountain-nymphs  "  to  hear  a 
mournful  style"  which  ehe  instantly  abandons,  saying,  " No 
words  can  work  my  weal." 


178 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  LOCRINE. 


Lives  Sabren  yet  to  expiate  my  wrath  ? 
Fortune,  I  thank  thee  for  this  courtesy : 
And  let  me  never  see  one  prosperous  hour, 
If  Sabren  die  not  a  reproachful  death. 

Sab.  Hard-hearted  Death,  that,  when  the  wretched 
Art  farthest  off,  and  seldom  hear'st  at  all,          [call, 
But  in  the  midst  of  Fortune's  good  success, 
Uncalled  comes,  and  shears  our  life  in  twain  ! 
When  will  that  hour,  that  blessed  hour,  draw  nigh, 
When  poor,  distressed  Sabren  may  be  gone  ?  — 
Sweet  Atropos,  cut  off  my  fatal  thread  !  — 
What  art  thou,  Death  ?  —  shall  not  poor  Sabren  die? 

Guen.  [advancing] .  Yes,  damsel,  yes !  Sabren  shall 

surely  die, 

Though  all  the  world  should  seek  to  save  her  life ; 
And  not  a  common  death  shall  Sabren  die  : 
But,  after  strange  and  grievous  punishments, 
Shortly  inflicted  on  thy  bastard  head, 
Thou  shall  be  cast  into  the  cursed  streams, 
And  feed  the  fishes  with  thy  tender  flesh. 

Sab.  And  think'st  thou,  then,  thou  cruel  homicide, 
That  these  thy  deeds  shall  be  unpunished  ? 
No,  traitor,  no  !  the  gods  will'venge  these  wrongs; — 
The  fiends  of  hell  will  mark  these  injuries. 
Ne'er  shall  these  blood-sucking,  [these]  mastiff1  curs, 
Bring  wretched  Sabren  to  her  latest  home. 
For  I,  myself,  in  spite  of  thee  and  thine, 
Mean  to  abridge  my  former  destinies  ; 
And  that  which  Locrine's  sword  could  not  perform, 
This  present  stream  shall  present  bring  to  pass.2 

[She  flings  herself  into  theriver. 

Guen.  One  mischief  follows  on  another's  neck  ! 
Who  would  have  thought  so  young  a  maid  as  she, 
With  such  a  courage  would  have  sought  her  death  ? 
And  —  for  because  this  river  was  the  place 

1  "  Afojty"  in  the  old  editions. 

2  Milton  somewhat  differs  from  this  story.     He  says : 
"  But  not  so  ends  the  fury  of  Guendolen ;  for  Estrildis  and 
her  daughter  Sabra  she  throws  into  a  river ;  and,  to  leave  a 
monument  of  revenge,  proclaims  that  the  stream  be  thence- 
forth called  after  the  damsel's  name,  which,  by  length  of 
time,  is  changed  now  to  Sabrine,  or  Severn."    Milton  refers 
to  this  incident  in  his  "  Comus."    He  deifies  the  damsel : — 

"  There  is  a  gentle  nymph  not  far  from  hence, 
That  with  moist  curb  sways  the  smooth  Severn  stream : 
Sabrina  is  her  name,  a  virgin  pure ; 
Whilome  she  was  the  daughter  of  Locrine, 
That  had  the  sceptre  from  his  father  Brute. 
She,  guiltless  damsel,  flying  the  mad  pursuit 
Of  her  enraged  stepdame,  Guendolen, 
Commended  her  fair  innocence  to  the  flood, 
That  stayed  her  flight  with  his  cross-flowing  course." 


Where  little  Sabren  resolutely  died — 
Sabren,  for  ever,  shall  this  same3  be  called. 
And  as  for  Locrine,  our  deceased  spouse, 
Because  he  was  the  son  of  mighty  Brute, 
To  whom  we  owe  our  country,  lives,  and  goods, 
He  shall  be  buried  in  a  stately  tomb, 
Close  by  his  aggd  father  Brutus'  bones, 
With  such  great  pomp  and  great  solemnity 
As  well  beseems  so  brave  a  prince  as  he. 
Let  Estrild  lie4  without  the  shallow  vault, 
Without  the  honor  due  unto  the  dead, 
Because  she  was  the  author  of  this  war. 
Retire,  brave  followers,  unto  Troynovant, 
Where  we  will  celebrate  these  exequies, 
And  place  young  LocrineS  in  his  father's  tomb. 

[Exeunt. 
Enter  ATE. 

Ate.  Lo  here  the  end  of  lawless  treachery,6 
Of  usurpation,  and  ambitious  pride  ;  — 
And  they,  that  for  their  private  amours,  dare 
Turmoil  our  land,  and  set  their  broils  abroach, 
Let  them  be  warned  by  these  premises  ;  — 
And,  as  a  woman  was  the  only  cause 
That  civil  discord  was  then  stirred  up, 
So  let  us  pray  for  that  renowned  maid, 
That  eight-and-thirty  years  the  sceptre  swayed 
In  quiet  peace  and  sweet  felicity  ;7 
And  every  wight  that  seeks  her  grace's  smart, 
Would  that  this  sword  were  pierced  hi  his  heart ! 

[Exit. 

2  A  correspondent  suggests  that  for  "  this  same,"  we  should 
read  "this  stream" — an  alteration  which  would  be  a  decided 
improvement  upon  the  tame  and  feeble  language  which  is 
employed. 

•*  "  Let  Estrild  be,"  is  the  language  of  the  ancient  folio. 

6  "  Young  Locrine"  would  seem  to  be  a  strange  epithet  on 
the  lips  of  his  younger  wife.  Should  it  not  be  "  your  Lo- 
crine !" 

6  Is  it  not  just  as  likely  that  Ate  meant  to  say  lechery  ? 

7  This  passage  fixes  the  date  of  one  performance  of  "  Lo- 
crine," the  thirty-eighth  year  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.    It 
is  by  no  means  conclusive  of  its  original  production  or  ex- 
hibition ;  only,  of  one  performance,  at  this  period,  the  copy 
used  then  being  that  from  which  the  publication  was  subse- 
quently made.    The  MS.  might  have  been  altered  a  hundred 
times,  and,  for  aught  we  know,  have  been  used  for  the  reigns 
before  and  after.    This  is  mentioned,  as  these  three  lines 
might  be  assumed  as  of  positive  authority  in  determining 
the  question  of  authorship.    The  old  dramatists  and  the 
managers  altered  their  plays  very  frequently,  to  suit  the 
reign  and  the  occasion,  availing  themselves  of  every  current 
event  which  might  enable  them  to  make  a  popular  hit  du- 
ring the  performance. 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  LOCRINE. 


Popular  Work !      Twelfth  Thousand  Now  Ready ! 

LEWIE,  OR  THE  BENDED  TWIG. 

BY  COUSIN  CICELY, 

Author  of  "  Silver  Lake  Stories,"  etc.,  etc. 

One  Volume  12mo.,       .....        Price  $1.0O 

ALDEN,  BEARDSLEY  &  CO.,  AUBURN,  N.  Y.,  J  „  ...  , 

WANZER.  BEARDSLEY  &  CO.,  ROCHESTER,  JN.  Y.,  I  ^ 

"  Mother !  thy  gentle  hand  hath  mighty  power, 
For  thou  alone  may'st  train,  and  guide,  and  mould 
Plants  that  shall  blossom,  with  an  odor  sweet, 
Or,  like  the  cursed  fig-tree,  wither,  and  become 
Vile  cumberers  of  the  ground." 

Brief  Extracts  from  Notices  of  th«  Press. 

*  *    *    A  tale  which  deserves  to  rank  with  "The  Wide,  Wide  World." 
It  is  written  with  graphic  power,  and  full  of  interest. — Hartford  Repub, 

*  *    *    Her  writings  are  equal  to  the  best.    She  is  a  second  Fanny 
Fern — Palmyra  Democrat. 

*  *    *    It  is  recommended  by  its  excellent  moral  tone  and  its  whole- 
some practical  inculcations. — ]\.  Y.  Tribune. 

*  *    *    Full  of  grace  and  charm,  its  style  and  vivacity  make  it  a  most 
amusing  work.    For  the  intellectual  and  thinking,  it  has  a  deeper  lesson, 
and  while  it  thrills  the  heart,  bids  parents  beware  of  that  weakness  which 
prepares  in  infancy  the  misery  of  man.    "  Lewie  "  is  one  of  the  most  pop- 
ular books  now  before  the  public,  and  needs  no  puffing,  as  it  is  selling  by 
thousands. — N.  Y.  Day  Book. 

*  *    *    The  moral  of  the  book  is  inestimable.    The  writer  cannot 
fail  to  be  good,  as  she  so  faithfully  portrays  ihe  evils  which  owe  their  ori- 
gin to  the  criminal  neglect  of  proper  parental  discipline. — Hunt'*  mer- 
chants' Magazine. 

*  *    *    The  plot  is  full  of  dramatic  interest,  yet  entirely  free  from 
extravagance ;  the  incidents  grow  out  of  the  main  plot  easily  and  natural- 
ly, while  the  sentiment  is  healthy  and  unaffected.    Commend  us  to  more 
writers  like  Cousin  Cicely — books  which  we  can  see  in  the  hands  of  our 
young  people  without  uneasiness.     Books  which  interest  by  picturing  life 
as  it  is,  instead  of  giving  us  galvanized  society.-  -National  Democrat. 

*  *    *    A  touching  and  impressive  story  unaffected  in  style  and  ef- 
fective in  plot. — N.  Y.  Evangelist. 

*  *    «    The  story  of  the  Governess,  contained  in  this  volume,  is  one 
of  rare  interest.— Highland  Eagle. 

*  *    *    The  story  is  a  charming  one — the  most  affecting  we  evei 
read. — Jersey  Shore  Republican. 

*  *    *    '-Cousin  Cicely"  is  just  the  person  to  portray  family  scenes. 
*    *    #    This  story  will  be  profitable  reading. — Daily  Capital  City  Fact 
Columbus,  Ohio. 

*  *    *    The  contents  of  the  work  are  of  the  first  order,  and  unexcep-. 
lionable. — Hartford  Daily  Times.* 


*  *    *    Let  every  youth  peruse  it.  and  we  promise  them  they  will 
rind  their  hearts  and  lives  improved  by  it. — Advocate,  Batavia. 

Truth  is  the  basis  of  the  work  before  us.  In  it  the  accomplished  au- 
thoress has  done  an  honor  to  her  sex,  and  we  doubt  not  secured  blessings 
upon  many  households  by  the  publication  of  this  finished  and  elegant  lit- 
\le  volume.  Her  former  labors  have  endeared  her  to  children.  The 
present  one  should  secure  for  her  the  affection  and  gratitude  of  parents. — 
(ten  <*v(>  Courier. 

*  *    *    It  is  lively  without  triviality,  and  replete  with  interest  from 
the  first  to  the  last. — New  York  Day  Book. 

*  *    *     Believing  this  work  adapted  to  lead  mothers  to  rightly  trair. 
the  little  shoots  springing  up  around  the  parent  tree,  and  to  restrain  their 
wandering  inclinations,  we  commend  it  to  their  perusal. — Student. 

Cousin  Cicely  is  gifted  with  rare  powers.  It  is  of  home  incidents  she 
writes,  and  in  a  manner  highly  attractive.  *  *  *  Traces  with  graphic 
force  the  loved  and  petted  child.  The  volume  is  full  of  instruction  to 
parents,  and  should  have  a  place  in  every  family  library  — Providence 
Daily  Post. 

*  *    *    Cousin  Cicely  is  well  known,  ind  a  work  from  her  pen  will 
meet  with  ready  welcome. — Providence  )  >tuly  Times. 

*  *    *    Her  works  are  of  decided  merit,  and  should  be  possessed  by 
all. — Rochester  Daily  American* 

*  *    *     She  has  got  the  hearts  of  parents  and  children  tnrough  the 
Silver  Lake  Stories  and  Lewie. — Rochester  L'aily  Democrat. 

*  *    *    The  moral  of  the  story  is  good,  snd  the  plot  is  so  touching, 
that  we  cannot  wonder  at  the  book's  success — N.  Y.  Commercial  Adv. 

*  *    *    Agnes,  the  sister  of  spoiled  Lewie,  v»  treated  with  uumotherly 
injustice  ;  grows  up  a  character  of  uncommon    oveliness  ;  and,  though 
"only  a  Governess,"  marries  splendidly. — N.  Y  Churclt  Journal, 

*  *    *     Downright  interesting  story.    It  if  crowded  with  domestic 
pictures,  true  to  nature.    *    *    *    The  short  HA  1  melancholy  career  of 
poor  Lewie,  shows  the  importance  of  properly  mauling  children. —  WM~ 
tern  Literary  Messenger. 

*  *    *    The  description  of  an  American  horn?  it  t*ue  to  the  life.     Ma- 
ny of  the  incidents  are  truly  affecting.    *    *    *    PwsAges  of  remarkable 
benutv  of  expression  and  sentiment.     We  give  the  fvh  owing  as  a  speci- 
men of  the  thought  and  style  which  characterizes  the  woik  :  "It  is  strange 
how  much  a  human  heart  may  suffer  and  beat  on  and  reqiin   tranquility, 
and  even  cheerfulness  at  last.     It  is  a  most  merciful  protis-on  of  Provi- 
dence, that  our  griefs  do  not  always  fall  as  heavily  as  they  do  at  first,  else 
how  could  the  burden  of  this  life  of  change  and  sorrow  be  borne.     But 
the  loved  ones  are  not  fo-gotton  when  the  tear  is  dried,  and  *h«  smile  re- 
turns to  the  cheek ;  they  ire  remembered,  but  with  less  of  sadness  and 
gloom  in  the  remembrance;  and  at  length,  if  we  can  think  o.'tHm  aa 
happy,  it  is  onlv  »  pleasure  to  recall  them  to  mind." — Patriot,  Jargon 
Michigan. 


Four  Thousand  in  Thirty  Days! 

TWO  ERAS   OF  FRANCE 

(Dm,  TOOT  SIP  ©mra  TODM  MSIP  MY  2 

BY  H.UGH   DE  N.QRMA.N.B', 

One  volume  12nw.,  (uniform  with  Lewie  and  Pearl  Fishing,) 
^i  368  pages. 

'!& 

%*  In  the  Stories  of  the  Revolution,  the  author  nas  detailed 
the  mournful  history  of  the  "  Dauphin."  and  presented  a  summa- 
ry of  the  evidence  so  far  discovered,  in  regard  to  that  most  inter- 
esting historical  question — the,  identity  of  the  Rev.  Eleazer  Wil- 
liams with  Louis  XVIL 

Muslin,  Gilt,  $1,  Gilt  Edges,  51.25,  Full  Gilt  Edges  &  Sides,  $1,7$, 

ALDEN.BEARDSLEV  &  Co.,  Auburn,  N.  Y.,         )  „  ...  , 
WANZER,  BEARDS  LEY  &.  Co.,  Rochester,  N.  Y.,  \  fut 

NOTICES    OF    THE    PRESS. 

*  *    *    We  have  read  this  volume  with  a  good  degree  of  satisfaction 
and  interest.    *    *    *    The  soul-stirring  events  of  the  incarceration  of  the 
Dauphin,  Prince  Louis  XVII.  his  probable  escape  through  the  aid  of  the 
friends  of  the  reigning  King,  and  the  evidence  pro  and  con,  relating  to 
the  claims  of  Rev.  Eleazer  Williams,  now  a  missionary  in  this  country, 
to  be  the  identical  person — the  rightful  heir  to  the  throne  of  France,  in 
place  of  the  present  incumbent. — Ontario  Messenger. 

*  *    *    A  most  interesting  volume.    We  need  but  mention  the  fact 
that  the  author  has  selected  for  his  stories  two  of  the  most  important 
periods  in  the  annals  of  France.    To  the  general  reader,  as  well  as  to 
the  scholar,  this  portion  of  French  history  is  confessedly  remarkable  for 
its  intense  interest. — Syracuse  Journal. 

*  *    *    The  author  treats  of  the  Williams  Dauphin  question,  and  has 
stated  the  arguments,  and  pronounced  it  "  at  least  highly  probable"  that 
Mr.  W.  is  the  Dauphin.    This  volume  will  be  found  a  very  attractive  one 
to  young  readers,  and  should  have  a  place  in  all  the  libraries  for  young 
men. — Evening  Mirror,  New-  York. 

*  *    *    These  stories  traverse  one  of  the  most  deeply  interesting  pe- 
riods of  French  History.    *    *    A  fine  steel  engraving  of  the  reverend 
gentleman  prefaces  the  volume. — The  Medina  Whig. 

*  *    *    Thrilling  events.    The  revolution  of  1789  stands  distinguished 
Tor  deep  and  world-wide  interest.    *    *    The  fate  of  the  helpless  infant 
Dauphin  has  excited  the  deepest  emotions  of  the  civilized  world.    What- 
ever relates  to  these  events  is  read  with  interest.    *    *    *    It  is,  there- 
fore, with  peculiar  pleasure  that  we  have  perused  the  late  issue.     Full 
of  startling  incident,  and  withal  bearing  the  stamp  of  truth  on  all  its 
pages,  it  cannot  fail  to  entertain  and  instruct  him  who  sits  down  to  itf 
perusal. — Lima  Visitor. 


*  *    *    Of  remarkable  and  intense  interest  to  the  general  reade   and 
the  scholar.     *    *    *    Its  contents  are  worthy  of  examination. — Palmyra 
Ulee  Book. 

*  *    *    The  facts  which  are  given  to  prove  the  identity  of  Mr.  Wil- 
liams with  the  Dauphin,  are  of  an  exceedingly  interesting  character,  and 
deserve  a  careful  examination.    The  extraordinary  resemblance  which 
the  Indian  Missionary  bears  to  the  portraits  of  Louis  XVI.   and  Louis 
XV11I.  is  not  the  least  remarkable  part  of  the  matter.     \Ve  commend 
this  readable  book  to  the  attention  of  our  friends,  as  one  well  worthy  of 
notice. — Fred.  Douglass1  Paper,  Rochester.  i 

*  *    *    Two  of  the  most  interesting  periods  in  all  tht  ntstory  of  that 
nation.    *    *    *    Some  of  the  more  striking  points  iu  the  history  of  those 
events. — Rochester  Daily  Advertiser, 

*  *    *     The  sketches  are  written  in  pleasant  style,  and  are  authen- 
tic.    *    *     *    It  can  be   read  with   pleasure  and  profit  by  all  persons 
who  would  have  a  correct  statement  of  two  most  important  events. — 
Rochester  Daily  American. 

*  *    *  v  The  fate  of  the  Hugenots  of  France — and  the  mysterious  his- 
rory  of  the  Dauphin  or  son  of  Louis  XI V.,  constitute  the  points  or' attrac- 
tion in  this  book — The  Wesleyan,  Syracuse,  N.  Y. 

*  *    *    These  are  portions  of  history  of  remarkable  interest.    *    * 

*  Every  new  book  upon  the  subject  is   eagerly  snatched  up  by  the 
public,  especially  by  a  lively  and  graphic  pen,  like  the  one  which  drew 
these  sketches.    The  work  is  replete  with  interest,  and  will  repay  a  pe- 
rusal.   *    *    *    The  author's  object  has  been  to  re-produce   these  great 
eras  with  vividness  and  freshness,  rather  than  to  express  any  novel  views 
respecting  them.     He  has  certainly  produced  vivid  pictures,  and  con- 
densed a  variety  of  historic   information  that  ought  to  be  in  every  read- 
er's possession.     The  idea  is  a  capital  one,  which  ought  to  be  more  fully 
carried  out.    The  reader  may  be  assured  of  a  very  impressive  and  reada- 
ble book.— AT.  Y.  Tribune. 

*  *    *    The  volume  will  be  found  a  very  attractive  one  to  young 
readers  and  should  have  a  place  in  all  the  libraries  for  young  men. — N. 
Y.  Mirror. 

*  *    *    This  is  a  book  of  great  interest  and  excellence.    It  contains 
two  stories  ;  but  each  one  is  full  of  stirring  events }  each  developes  an 
era  m  the  history  of  France. — Boston  Traveller. 

This  work  is  of  great  interest  and  of  usefulness  to  the  general  reader, 
the  student  and  statistician.  It  is  a  sketch  of  Biographies,  thrilling  in- 
cidents and  recitals,  replete  with  Historical  Fact  and  valuable  informa- 
tion, divested  of  the  prolixity  which  necessarily  appertains  to  standard 
Historic  works.  *  *  *  \Ve  commend  the  book  as  a  digest  of  Histo- 
ry.— TJie  American  Citizen. 


